


The Man Who Ate Brooklyn

by Kelly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artists, M/M, Magical Realism, Modern Era, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rock Stars, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trope Subversion, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelly/pseuds/Kelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world oversaturated with propaganda to find your soulmate, Steve isn't interested in feeding into the hype. He resigns himself to a quiet, solo existence as an artist barely making it in Brooklyn. When his art lands him in the midst of an up and coming rockstar, he'll be pushed to new places and new feelings that he never could have prepared for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nobleyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobleyes/gifts).



The cake is actually the burnt end of a meatloaf, but Steve doesn’t mind. The single candle is threatening to drip wax onto the crusty meat, the flame flickering from the drafty kitchen window. His mother sits across from him, telling him in serious tones about making a proper wish. Because it’s not just his birthday – it’s his Name Day.

Being fifteen is the last time Steve’s wrist will be blank. He doesn’t know which wrist the name will appear on, although it will probably be his right. Most people’s are on the right. Would it appear all at once, or smudge itself together over the stretch of weeks? His nerves are taut at the prospect.

“Wish for someone who will make you very happy, Steve,” his mother whispers, giving his arm a squeeze. The name on her wrist is covered with a tied handkerchief for the sake of modesty. He saw it once, when he was little and his dad was still alive. But it wasn’t his father’s name etched into his mother’s skin, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder how many of their troubles were because of that.

Dutifully, he looks at the flickering candle. Maybe someone out there already has his name on their wrist, or maybe they are still years away from their Name Day. Maybe he will be Unmatched or Unmarked. He glances down at the pale skin of his wrists, taking a deep breath. When he blows out the candle, he wishes for someone to spend the rest of his life with.

His mother claps, which makes him smile. She’s trying her best to give him a celebration, even if it’s just the two of them. She gets two forks, and together they eat the leftover meatloaf from the diner where she works.

“You could have invited some friends,” she says.

“Everyone’s busy,” Steve replies, a poor lie that neither of them are keen to point out. They both know he doesn’t have any friends.

“Maybe next time,” his mom smiles at him, and they eat the rest of the meatloaf together. 

He almost doesn’t notice it at first, the smudge like black ink on the inside of his left wrist. He was born at 7:40 p.m. It’s almost 8:30 now.

“It’s coming in!” his mother exclaims, and he wonders if she’s more excited than he is. “Do you think it’ll be someone you know?”

God, he hopes not. “Does that actually happen?” Steve asks rhetorically, mesmerized by the dark swirling threads under his skin. There are so many theories – names destined from birth, or actions until your sixteenth birthday determining who you would be paired with. No one knows how the names came to be.

“I’ve heard of childhood sweethearts getting their names on each others’ wrists,” his mother says wistfully, although Steve doesn’t have a childhood sweetheart so he doesn’t know why that would matter.

“Mike and Betsy were dating until another name showed up on Mike’s wrist,” Steve says, suddenly feeling upset. What does it matter who shows up on his wrist? He’ll probably never find this person, it’s not like he can afford a fancy soul match search.

“Have hope,” she says, with a faint smile. “Look now, it’s coming together.”

The ink under his skin starts to coalesce into letters, forming three neat rows on his wrist. And then he _reads_ them, and fear clenches in his guts. His right hand snaps over his left wrist, although it was too late, his mother already saw the words, and she’s paled.

“Mom, I’m not—” his breath hitches a little.

Silence stretches for a long moment, the curtains fluttering from the draft. She’s shaking her head, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “Do you think I didn’t know my boy is gay?”

He flinches at the word.

“I had just…I had hoped this…” Her unspoken words hang heavy in the air.

Steve just stares at the hand covering his wrist, feeling sick. He’d never been with anyone, so he thought that maybe, in this he’d be normal. He’d have a nice girl’s name on his wrist to look at for the rest of his life and it would be _fine_. Even though he’d always…thought about boys, he’d never expected…

His mother’s hands cover his own. “You know that you don’t have to be with this person.” Her tone is a dreadful mix of hope and fear and it makes Steve’s guts twist.

“I know – I know,” he whispers, thinking of the name that isn’t his father’s on her wrist.

She gives his arm a squeeze. “You’ll have to cover it.”

Steve just nods, numbly. “I’ll wear something over it. I…I think I need to go to bed.”

It’s only when he’s alone in his shoebox of a room that he allows his hand to unclench from around his wrist. His fingers left red marks across his skin, and he stares down at the name. _James Buchanan Barnes_. Steve lets out a low, harsh breath. He wonders if this James got his name as well, or if Steve is destined to be Unmatched. A part of Steve hopes that, if this is the person he’s going to love forever, that James gets someone better.

Steve goes to sleep with his wrist still bare, his fingers closing around the name, wondering about a life he’ll never have.

 

* * *

 

The billboard at the corner of 41 st and Kings reads “Caroline Greer, I can’t wait to meet you. –Jack.” There’s a phone number and email listed, of course. Jack must be getting pretty desperate to find Caroline if he’s taking out billboards in this part of town. Even if he did locate her, he might not like what he finds. For the rich there are registries, detective agencies, and matching websites. They all promise to find your soul mate.

Steve pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching against the cold as he walks past the billboard like he does every day. The handkerchief wrapped around his left wrist sticks out, a little clumsily tied but serving its purpose. 

He’s finally well enough to not cough up a lung every time he steps outside, but his breathing is still raspy. Pushing open the door to the diner is a relief, warm air rushing into his aching chest.

“Steve! Good good, you’re here. Barb is sick, you can bus tables for me.” The owner of the restaurant, Will, pushes a wet rag into Steve’s hands. Steve has to juggle with his sketchbook, placing it on the counter before getting to work. After Steve’s mom died four years ago, Will made a point to give Steve any odd jobs he could find around the diner. Unfortunately Steve is a horrible handyman, can’t cook, and most of the cleaning supplies screw up his breathing. So instead, he sketches for Will. His drawings line the walls, each neatly framed, showing different views of Brooklyn. But for the moment, he scrubs tables.

The TV in the corner is the only noise in the restaurant, Steve having entered during the morning lull. He doesn’t have TV at home, and he half pays attention before losing interest. It’s some morning talk show. The host, a pretty brunette with red lipstick, is interviewing a young man. He’s laughing, and obviously they’re discussing the fashionable leather straps covering his left forearm.

“So you won’t give us a hint? The whole world’s dying to know who’s on that wrist.”

He laughs, lounging on the couch, one arm draped over the side. He seems to take up a lot of space, oozing money and confidence. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell. I just hope I meet her someday, and find out she’s a fan.”

Will is rolling his eyes. “You know this guy?” he gestures to the TV with his chin.

Obviously he doesn’t mean personally, but Steve doesn’t know of him at all, so he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

“He’s the lead singer of the Howling Commandos. My daughter’s in love with him – she’s convinced his name is going to show up on her wrist in a few years.”

Steve smiles faintly. “Maybe he’s a nice guy.”

“He’s a player, that’s what he is,” Will snorts. “All these young girls thinking they’re the one for him. It’s part of the appeal. People will do anything these days for money.”

Steve just shrugs, “You never know who you’re going to get. Hey, isn’t there a game on?” They change the channel to baseball and Steve doesn’t think about the pretty boy rockstar again.

 

* * *

 

On Fridays and Saturdays, Steve takes the train to downtown New York City with a box under one arm and a portfolio bag in hand. He sets up on a nice corner, one without rain puddles where the shop owners don’t complain too loudly, and sells his art to tourists. Sometimes people ask him to sketch caricatures, which he hates, but does anyway for a few bucks. Sometimes it’s slower than others.

When a man wearing a grey suit under his fashionably dark coat stops to look at the drawings Steve has propped up, Steve pauses in the sketch he’s working on. The man pushes up the glasses on his nose as he studies the Steve’s rendition of the Brooklyn Bridge. He doesn’t look like a tourist. “Good afternoon,” Steve greets him.

The man grunts; definitely a native, then. He turns to look at Steve. “Do you accept commissions?”

The question makes Steve’s eyebrows go up. A guaranteed sell is welcome after all the hard work he puts into his drawings. “Yeah, you can request whatever you want.”

The stranger nods, looking through the sketches again. After a while he says, “If I gave you a picture of something, could you draw it?”

“I like to see things in person,” Steve admits. “But you can tell me what you want, and I’ll do my best.”

The man nods. “You’ll be here tomorrow?” Steve tells him the times that he’s there, and the stranger leaves. 

The next day is colder than is seasonal, and Steve huddles on his usual corner in his secondhand coat. He was busy sketching, his handkerchief doubling as a cloth to smudge out the shading on the Chrysler Building. It’s almost exactly the same time as yesterday, and the man strides across the street at a crisp pace. He’s wearing the same coat, although the suit underneath has changed. The large case in his right hand is another addition to the ensemble. He’s not menacing looking, per se, just a little serious. And Steve likes to give people the benefit of the doubt. “You came back,” he smiles, as the man opens the case. Steve had been planning on going home early because of the weather, but he’s glad he stayed.

“I would like to commission a drawing from you,” he says, all business. He hands Steve a stack of photographs, which Steve takes clumsily and starts to leaf through. They’re images of Brooklyn, the skyline and the landmarks. All intimately familiar to Steve after spending his life in the city. The next pictures are of a man’s head, a side profile, his mouth open, a straight on shot.

“These are…interesting,” he says tactfully.

“I want you to draw a composite of these images, somewhat stylized. The man eating Brooklyn.”

Steve isn’t one to argue with someone’s taste, but it is an oddly specific request. He looks through the pictures for a second time, trying to visualize how he would do it.

“What are your rates?”

“How big do you want the picture?” Steve asks, a little thrown by how serious this conversation is. Most “commissions” were five minute portraits, not briefcases full of preliminary materials and specific instructions.

“I have materials I’d like you to use.” The man pulls out several sheets of paper the size of the case, larger than the usual sort Steve uses. He also pulls out a package of pencils, freshly sharpened and never used. Steve’s pencils – especially the 2H and 4B – are almost stubs. He touches the box of pencils with quiet reverence, the cold momentarily forgotten.

“I’ll give them back after I finish your picture,” he says.

“No, consider them a part of the payment. How much will you charge?”

Steve hesitates, mentally calculating in his head how much time he will spend on the drawing. Not that it matters; people don’t like to spend a lot of money on art. “Maybe $70?”

The man must find this fair, because he nods. He pulls out a card from his briefcase, handing it to Steve, who juggles with all the new things to carry. He doesn’t want to get the paper wet. The business card is stark white, on heavy paper. Alexander Pierce is printed in small, legible print, followed by a phone number and email. No company or additional information, not that Steve really expected it.

“You can contact me when you’re finished,” Pierce says.

“It might take me a week or two.” Steve is creating a neat little pile of the pictures, paper, and pencil box. He tucks the card in his jacket pocket. He has other pictures to work on and sell.

“That’s fine. I’ll be expecting your call.”

And just like that, he leaves. Steve packs up shortly after that, trying desperately to keep things from getting wet or bent. Luckily he has a battered portfolio case that he can store everything in, but he’s still convulsively smoothing the edges of the large paper sheets. He heaves up his burden, walking to the train to go home.

 

* * *

 

It takes two weeks. Steve has never had a serious commission before, and he makes more preliminary sketches than he thought possible. A part of him wants this to be perfect, something he’s proud of. The more he sketches, the less bizarre the concept seems. It’s more surrealist than anything he’s done before, and he’s stretching creative muscles he never used before. When he’s finally satisfied with a design, he scans the sketch at the library and emails a copy to Pierce for approval. He gets a short email in reply, agreeing that it’s what he wanted.

So Steve works on the real thing. He draws until his hand cramps, until the pencils are significantly shorter and his floor is covered in eraser shavings. After he signs a small S. Rogers in the corner, he takes a moment to just stare at it. The man eating Brooklyn. It’s fanciful, but oddly realistic. The man’s half-open eyes glint, his eyelashes casting soft shadows on robust cheeks. Each line of stubble is carefully crafted. The buildings express a range, some small and toy like, other iconic views of Brooklyn. And all are going into the man’s mouth. Steve buys a protective sleeve for the work, then sandwiches it in cardboard. He calls Alexander Pierce.

It’s Friday in the city, and Pierce comes to his corner just after 2 o’clock. He inspects the drawing, his lips twitching up in the first appearance of a smile. “It’s excellent.”

Steve beams. Pierce gives him an envelope in exchange for the work, and Steve straps the drawing back into the cardboard for safe transport. A part of Steve is sorry to see it go. While it isn’t his own personal taste, he put a lot of work into the piece and is proud of how it turned out.

Pierce shakes his hand in a surprisingly friendly manner, and leaves in a cab. When Steve finally checks the envelope, he finds two hundred dollar bills. He blinks, surprised and warmed despite the cold afternoon.

He goes grocery shopping that evening, pays the electric bill, and feels like maybe things are looking up.

 

* * *

 

Six months go by too quickly. Steve spends half of winter too sick to do much of anything but sketch in his apartment and accept the pity meals his neighbors bring him. Will stops by regularly with leftovers from the diner, and Steve can’t help but be grateful. It isn’t until the first buds of spring that he starts to feel like himself again. 

Sam wants to buy a new camera, and for some reason wants to bring Steve along. Steve, who has trouble with televisions that have more than one remote. It may be a ploy to get him out of the house, but Steve is none the wiser. It becomes apparent fairly early in the process when words like DSLR are thrown around that Steve will be no help at all, and he wanders through the other sections of the store while Sam chats with the salesman. The wall of televisions is dizzying in size, and he walks past them on his way to the music section when something catches his eye.

The show host is sitting across from a vaguely familiar 20-something with shaggy hair, and Steve surprises himself by placing the man as the rockstar Will’s daughter is in love with. But that’s not what makes him stop. On thirty TVs, the host holds up a CD, talking to the singer. “—loving the retro feel of this album. Where did you get your inspiration?”

“We really got back to our roots with this one, looking at what made us who we are. It came together so organically…”

Steve stops listening, world narrowing. Because the CD cover is the man swallowing Brooklyn. His man swallowing Brooklyn. His stomach churns, a wave of sickness washing over him.

A sudden hand on his shoulder makes him jump. “So I picked out the model, want to help me decide which color to – hey man,” Sam frowns. “You alright?”

“I have to go,” Steve replies, his voice coming out at a higher pitch than usual.

He can’t get out of the store fast enough. He tears through his apartment, finally finding the card at the bottom of his portfolio case. His fingers shake as he dials, trying to breathe. The phone rings. And rings. “You’ve reached the voicemail of Alexander Pierce…”

Steve waits through the message, shifting from foot to foot, and when the beep sounds he feels like he’s been shot. “I…hello, this is…this is Steve, Rogers,” he says, trying to steady himself. “I wanted to discuss…that drawing I did for you last fall. I um, you can…call me back, please.” He stutters out the number, and mashes the end button. His inhaler is sitting innocently on the counter, and he tries not to use it more than he needs too – but he’s on the verge of losing it, and the puff of medicine helps him feel like he’s not suffocating in his own skin.

The next thing he does is go to the record store on the corner. While it caters more to a hipster crowd with its stacks of records, it also carries CDs. He ends up in the H section, thumbing through the cases with a slow rising level of dread. He finds three Howling Commandos albums, the last one with a ‘Staff Pick’ sticker on the front. He clutches it in front of himself, the image on the cover strange and small behind clear plastic.

“Hey, good choice man,” the cashier gives Steve a nod of approval as he rings up the purchase.

Steve just nods, a little dazed. It takes all the crumpled bills and change in his pockets to come up with $16.89. He walks slowly back to his apartment, clutching the CD through the bag, the feeling of sickness low level and constant now.

Sam is outside the door when he gets there. He pushes off the wall when he sees Steve approach, giving his trademark friendly smile. “You ran off pretty quick. Everything alright?” He’s looking at the purple plastic bag that Steve is clutching with white knuckles, always astute and this side of concerned.

“I had a...” his voice trails, eyes distant. He draws a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do, Sam.”

“Let’s go in,” Sam gestures with a tilt of his head. He takes Steve’s keys from him, unlocking the apartment and leading the way inside. “Tell me what’s up.”

Steve sits heavily at the kitchen table, still gripping the CD through the bag. With trembling hands he withdraws the CD, trying to pick off the plastic wrap.

Sam’s eyebrows furrow at the sight, tipping his head to see the front of the CD. “Is that…that’s yours,” he says, realization dawning. Steve’s drawings are everywhere, his style distinct enough that Sam knows it. “They stole your art?”

“I…this guy bought it. He commissioned it for $200.” Steve’s nails are too short to get the edge of the plastic up, just scraping again and again over the same spot. “But he didn’t say it was for…for this.”

“That can’t be legal,” Sam says, frowning. He gently takes the CD, tearing the plastic off and handing it back to Steve. Finally getting the case open, Steve ignores the CD itself and slips out the front booklet. He flips to the back where it says, “Cover artwork copyright Hydra Records.” Steve just stares.

“Can you imagine,” he says, voice low. “Designing an album cover for a well known band? The exposure that would come with that?” He blinks at the booklet, barely gripping it.

“Hey, we’re going to figure this out.” Sam turns the CD case over, looking at the rest of it while Steve just sits there dazed. “You’ll get paid for this.”

“I just need recognition. It’s mine.” He exhales a shaky breath, trying to keep himself from needing his inhaler again so soon.

Sam reaches forward, the sweatband around his wrist pressing against Steve’s arm as he gingerly takes the booklet. “Let’s go then.”

“Where?”

Sam waves the booklet, “Hydra Records. Let’s go pay that guy a visit.”

 

* * *

 

The record company is located in a high-rise in the financial district. It’s one of twenty labels that occupy the staggering number of floors.  

The receptionist taps away on her keyboard, speaking in clipped tones into her headset. She ignores Steve and Sam for about five minutes before she finally turns to them, seeming to acknowledge that they aren’t going to just go away. “Can I help you?” she asks, already sounding exacerbated.

“I’d like to see Alexander Pierce,” Steve says, voice clear and direct. They looked Pierce up on the way over. It took some digging on the Hydra Records website, but he is a producer for the company.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I can make one.”

“No,” Sam cuts in, “He’ll see him today. It’s important.”

The receptionist arches a finely plucked eyebrow at them. Her fingers tap away without looking at the keyboard or computer. “Name?”

“Steve Rogers.”

She types some more. “You can have a seat. When Mr. Pierce is available, I’ll let you know.”

It’s a dismissal if Steve has ever heard one, and it frustrates him to no end. They move over to the plush white couch in the lounge and sit down. Steve doesn’t know anyone who owns white furniture, it seems impractical. And expensive.

Steve is antsy, his leg bouncing as he watches the receptionist. People come in and out, some speaking with the woman at the desk, others heading straight for the elevator. Sam flips through a magazine. No one joins them in the lounge.

Sam gets up twice to ask the receptionist how long it might be, when is Pierce free, anything, and she’s equally vague. Steve knows they’re being led on, and his frustration bubbles. He finally stands, taking a deep breath. Sam’s leg was bouncing, but it stills and he perks up. “I’m just going to use the bathroom,” Steve says, and Sam crumples. They are going to be here a while.

Steve goes to the desk, asking the receptionist where the men’s room is. He walks down the hallway she indicates, finding the bathrooms unfortunately close to the reception area. He dawdles for a moment, and then takes a few steps further down the hallway. Finding the directory isn’t hard. Consisting of three black boards with slide-on white letters, the building directory goes by floor, listing out companies and studios. He scans quickly, quickly, and spots Hydra Records near the bottom of the second board, listed on the 17 th floor.

“Sir, you’re not allowed in this area—” 

Steve jumps as someone tries to grab his arm, and he twists away. “Oh, sorry,” he steps back from the security guard, giving a sheepish smile. He doesn’t even think about it. He turns, and takes off at a dead run. 

“Stop!” he hears behind him, and Steve rounds the corner, skidding as he dashes down another hall.

Then he sees it, the blessed holy grail: The elevator. “Hold the door!” he yells, barely registering the surprised man’s face before he barrels into the open elevator, his breathing ragged as he hits the far wall with his hands, momentum too strong.

“Stop that man!” the security guard yells, distance rapidly lessening between him and the tiny box Steve backed himself into. 

Steve’s heart hammers in his chest, opening his mouth to say something – right as the man presses the close door button and the elevator doors slide soundlessly closed just as the security guard bangs into the door and curses.

Steve bends in half, hands on his knees, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. He realizes that the man isn’t the only person in the elevator; to one side stands a pair of nude pumps, and he follows the legs up to a red headed woman. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “They still won’t listen to your demo, I promise you that.”

The man snorts, drawing Steve’s full attention. Now that he can really look at him, Steve feels like he’s seen him before. His brunette hair is tied back in a loose bun, his full lips quirked in a half smile. It’s the blue eyes that draw him in, wiping his mind of every other thought. Steve straightens subconsciously. “You never know,” the stranger says to the woman. Then to Steve, “Where you headed?”

They’re already moving, and Steve didn’t even realize it. The elevator is smooth and silent. “17,” he rasps.

“Us too,” the man says with a grin. “We can sneak you in.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Are you a singer or a musician?”

“Neither. I’m an artist — I draw.”

She studies him a little more closely. “Did you bring a portfolio to show?”

Steve starts to sweat under the collar of his shirt. “No, one of my pieces was used as an album cover.”

“Yeah? Congrats,” the man says, giving Steve a smile that makes his heart beat a little faster.

The door slides open, revealing a stylish room with records prominently displayed on the walls. Hydra Records is spelled out in huge block letter above the receptionist’s desk, which is presently empty. Posters and signed photos add to the décor, a pair of red leather chairs completing the lounge. The man and woman exit the elevator without hesitation.

“Why were you running then?” the woman asks.

Steve hesitates for a moment. “Mistaken identity, I suppose,” he tries to smile.

“You’re a horrible liar,” she replies, but doesn’t say anything else. She’s striding to the hallway that branches off to their right. 

Steve’s stress level rises, and he wonders how long he has until the security guard joins them up here.

The man lingers by Steve, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing some sort of intricate leather strapping around his left wrist, and Steve can’t help but look at it for a moment before mentally shaking himself. He’s not usually so rude. “So do you know where to go from here?”

“Not really,” Steve admits. 

“Who are you here to see?”

“Alexander Pierce.”

“That’s easy, he’s over here,” he tilts his head, leading the way down the hallway.

Getting further from the elevator calms Steve marginally – maybe they won’t come after him. He finds himself staring at the back of the man’s neck as they walk. His hairline is a little crooked, and he finds it oddly endearing. He’s about to ask for the man’s name when they stop in front of a door and he knocks twice before pushing it open to lead Steve in.

Alexander Pierce is unperturbed, sitting behind his desk like it’s any other Tuesday. “Bucky, you’re late for your session,” he says, as if Steve doesn’t exist.

And suddenly, it all comes rushing to the surface. Anger vibrates inside him, clawing up his throat and making it hard to breathe again. “What kind of person – who does this?” he demands.

“Mr. Rogers, I don’t believe you made an appointment with the receptionist downstairs,” Pierce says, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile.

Something changes in Bucky’s face – his eyebrows draw together, looking at Steve with a lingering gaze, then Pierce. “What’s going on?” he asks finally, his cutting gaze back on Steve.

“He stole my work.” Steve is sure he’s going to combust.

“I did no such thing,” Pierce replies smoothly. “I commissioned Mr. Rogers for a piece, which he completed and was paid for with a mutually agreed upon price.”

“That’s not – I didn’t–” Steve’s throat feels like it’s closing up. He’s survived so much, and now he’s going to drop dead on the floor of Alexander Pierce’s office. This room is bigger than his whole apartment.

A hand on Steve’s shoulder grounds him and brings him back from the brink. He looks up into concerned eyes. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

“O-kay,” he said, voice rasping.

Pierce stands, buttoning his suit jacket as he does. “I’m sure we can come to an understanding. Bucky, you can go to your session now.” It sounds like a dismissal if Steve has every heard one, and for a brief moment he fears that if he doesn’t walk out of this office, it won’t be because he has a deadly asthma attack.

“No, I’m staying,” Bucky says with calm authority that Steve envies. “Tell me what happened.” He leads Steve over to one of the plush chairs in front of Pierce’s desk, and at a squeeze on his shoulder, Steve sits. Pierce is still standing, a vein in his forehead pulsing with barely controlled fury.

He points to the original drawing framed on Pierce’s wall. “I drew that.”

Bucky’s eyebrows go up. “You drew the man who ate Brooklyn?”

“But no one knows it was me.”

“I’m sure we can reach an understanding where everyone is happy,” Pierce tries again. “This isn’t really anything you concern yourself with, Bucky.”

“That’s my album,” Bucky says, and there is danger in his voice, a challenge.

Steve looks at him with new eyes, blinking. Of course, the shaggy haired man from the television interview. The wrist straps, Will’s daughter. “You’re in The Howling Commandos,” he realizes.

“Yes,” he says, but he’s looking at Pierce, jaw set.

Pierce is apathetic. “We will compensate Mr. Rogers for the misunderstanding.”

“I don’t want money. I need people to know that the piece is mine — this is how I make a living, if people _knew_ –”

“It’s much too late for that, I’m afraid,” Pierce interrupts. “The albums are out, all the publicity done. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Steve’s mouth opens and closes a few times, feeling like the water he’s been treading here is about to overtake him. And just before it does, “He’ll come on tour with us.” All eyes turn to Bucky, who looks determined. “He can make a new drawing of every city we visit, we’ll blow them up all over. With his name on them, and _proper_ payment.”

The room is so silent, Steve can’t even breathe. He’s just staring at Bucky, completely speechless. “You…that’s okay with you?” 

“I think it would be amazing. If you’re up for it, that is.”

Steve can barely manage a nod.

Pierce loudly opens a drawer, startling them both. “I will write up a contract detailing the terms of Mr. Rogers’ employment with Hydra Records.”

“I’ll take a copy of it when you’re done,” Bucky says coolly.

“I don’t need you to check the contract for me,” Steve says automatically.

“Oh,” Bucky looks at him again, really looks at him, and nods. “Yeah, okay.”

“It will take a few days to draft.” Pierce’s smile is forced around the edges. “You can make an appointment at the reception desk to come back and review it later this week.”

It feels wrong to thank Pierce, so he doesn’t. Instead he just stands, and Bucky does the same. 

“Tour starts at the end of the month,” Bucky says as they walk to the door. “I’ll be seeing you then. Rogers, was it?”

Steve doesn’t know what to make of the note of flirting in the other man’s tone, brows furrowing. As Bucky opens the door as he says, “It’s Steve, actually. Steve Rogers.” He passes Bucky on his way into the hallway, starting for the elevators. It takes him a moment to realize he’s alone. He turns back around to see Bucky still holding the door, staring at him with an unreadable expression. “Are you coming?”

“Ah, yeah,” Bucky seems to come back to himself, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he takes several long strides to catch up with Steve. “I’ve got a recording session, actually, so, I’m that way,” he tilts his head down another hall.

“I know where the elevator is,” Steve says, starting to get an adrenaline let down from all the excitement.

“Don’t get arrested on the way down, yeah?” Bucky smiles at him again, a slight upturn of one side of his lips.

“No promises,” Steve says with a slight smile of his own.

“See you on the tour, Steve Rogers.”

“See you, Bucky.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

Steve leans his chin heavily on his hand, elbow propped on the table. He picks up one of the papers spread in front of them, the small print blurring into an undistinguishable mass. He closes his right eye to read it better. “If this is all right, I don’t see why not,” he says with a sigh, setting the paper down again. Page 34 of 87.

“Maybe you should have taken that guy up on his offer to review this for you,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair.

“He’s probably busy — besides, we can figure this out.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says, unconvinced.

“Just go get more milk out of the fridge.”

“I am not helping you finish all your perishables,” but he’s getting up to grab the carton and pour them each another glass. “You still have a week until the tour leaves, don’t you need to eat until then?”

“I don’t eat that much.”

“Well your lack of fruit and milk says you’re pretty optimistic about going with the band on Monday.”

“I want to go, but I don’t know if all _this_ ,” he gestures dramatically to the spread of papers, “says I should go. Don’t you read court documents all the time for work?”

“Yeah, but nothing like this.” Sam sits back down, handing Steve his milk.

Steve frowns at the papers some more, just holding the glass. “It’s going to be a lot of work. Usually this sort of thing…it would be done months in advance. I’ll be drawing the next city while we’re driving there.”

“Do you think it’s doable?”

“Barely, but yeah.”

“Then you should do it. So long as Pierce isn’t screwing you over, it sounds like a great opportunity. This could be your big break, Steve.”

“This is not how I expected to get famous. Not that it isn’t good work, I just…I wanted to do something more.”

Sam shrugs, “Then do something more. Pierce probably broke some laws taking your work, so get what you want out of this.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, leaning back, considering.

“Definitely. And it’s one job. Even if it sucks, there will more jobs.”

Steve is nodding, taking a drink of milk. “I’m going to do it.”

“Alright! We should celebrate.” Sam grins, going back to the fridge and getting them each a beer.

“The milk,” Steve reminds him.

“I’ll take the damn milk when you’re leaving. It won’t go to waste,” Sam laughs.

 

* * *

 

“A charity auction.” Pierce does not seem impressed, looking at Steve over the top of his glasses with a slight frown. “I don’t think you quite understand what a music tour is, Mr. Rogers.”

“All I’m saying is that after you guys use the design during the concert, the original should be auctioned off. I want the money to go to homeless teens here in Brooklyn.”

Pierce sighs, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk. He considers Steve for a long moment, and Steve fights not to fidget. “Fine,” he says finally. “You’ll have your charity auction. Do we have a deal?”

Steve smiles, feeling a little giddy. “Deal.” He offers his hand over the desk, and they shake on it. 

“I’ll amend the contract to include your…stipulation, and you can sign on Monday.” Pierce pushes his glasses up, making a note on the papers in front of him. “I’ll need a list of supplies you require for the tour. Drop that at reception as soon as possible.”

Steve stands, and thanks Pierce before leaving the office. On his way to the elevator he sees the redheaded woman from the day before. She’s leaning against the wall, tapping away on her phone. Both her wrists are covered with fashionable arm warmers embroidered with small geometric patterns.

“Steve Rogers,” she says without looking up.

He stops in front of her, blinking once.

She looks up from her phone and holds out her hand. “Natasha Romanoff. We’ll be spending a lot of time together on the Howling Commandos tour.”

“Oh, nice to meet you,” he shakes her hand. “Are you in the band?”

“I’m their publicity manager. It’s my job to get your pieces maximum exposure in the cities we visit.”

“That’s great,” he smiles. “Hopefully they’ll be as good as the album cover.”

“I have no doubt,” she says, and he has no idea why she sounds so confident about it.

“I’ve never…done something like this before,” he admits.

“I don’t believe many people have.”

“So I guess there isn’t a ‘going on tour’ handbook, huh?” he tries to joke.

She arches an eyebrow. “Do you have a specific question?”

“Not, uh, really.”

Her smirk is not unkind. “Let me know if you come up with anything.” She produces a card from her purse, handing it over.

Steve takes it, holding it with both hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t have cards.”

“They’re being printed.”

His surprise reflects on his face. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She pushes off the wall, heading toward Pierce’s office. 

Steve hurries to the reception desk, writing a list of art supplies he’ll need. There’s a television he didn’t notice before, beneath the Hydra Records logo and behind the receptionist. It’s playing tour footage, bright and flashy, of the Howling Commandos. It must be a few years old, because Bucky’s hair is shorter and his demeanor somehow different. He seems more at ease in his own skin now. The upcoming tour dates flash across the screen: the domestic tour stretches just over three months and covers thirty-five cities. It’s so big, Steve can hardly fathom it. What if they ask him to come along for the international shows? It isn’t something they discussed, so he doesn’t even know if it’s a possibility. 

He hands the receptionist his list, as best as he can figure. Whatever happens, happens. He’ll just try to make the most of this and not mess it up.

 

* * *

 

Steve arrives a whole two hours early on the morning of the tour. His duffel bag is small despite not knowing what weather they will encounter in thirty-five cities across the United States. One jacket, a selection of shirts, two pairs of pants, socks and underwear are his only clothing. He doesn’t actually own a second pair of shoes, so sneakers it is. The beat up laptop he carries is a hand-me-down from Sam.

The bus is huge, Howling Commandos painted on the side with a decal of Steve’s man eating Brooklyn. It’s odd to see it so large, so professional. The bus driver is kind enough to let him on board — or maybe he just gets tired of Steve’s poor attempt at small talk.

The inside is like nothing he’s ever imagined. There are couches on either side of the bus, and a small kitchenette. He’s bold enough to snoop in the cabinets, finding an array of pre-packaged snack food and meals. Further back in the bus Steve finds twelve bunks, stacked three high on either side of the center aisle. A curtain on each bunk allows some semblance of privacy, but he can’t actually imagine having a moment alone on a bus with this many people. (Embarrassingly, he doesn’t know how many people are in the band and who rides on the bus. That should have been one of his questions to Natasha.) The bathroom is tiny, and reminds him of his apartment in Brooklyn, although in size alone. The chrome finishes and modern cabinets are nothing like back home. 

He returns to the front of the monstrous coach, discovering a table that pulls out of the wall in front of a sofa. It looks as good a place as any to draw.

Natasha is the first to join him on the bus, carrying a huge portfolio case full of art supplies. She heaves it up onto the couch beside him, and Steve can’t wait to dig his hands into the materials. After thanking her, he starts setting up his corner. 

She sits down on the couch across from him, legs crossing gracefully. “I’m going to be in the van, but I’ll see you at every stop,” she says, adjusting her arm warmers. “When you run out of supplies, we’ll either purchase in the city we’re in, or order them.”

He nods, feeling a tingle of nerves. He knows nothing about Natasha, but she is more familiar than the rest of the band. He hopes they’re as nice as Bucky if they’re going to be living together for three months.

“The further we get into the tour, the more likely the band will sleep during the day,” she says, appraising him. “If you find it difficult to draw on the bus, you might want to adopt the same schedule and draw during tour stops.”

“I’ll see how it goes.” The supplies are spread everywhere around him now, and he drags out the thick laptop. After it boots up he clicks on a file labeled _Cities,_ and selects the first folder. “Boston,” he murmurs, twirling the HB pencil between his fingers.

Natasha stands, just as a loud ruckus outside results in a pouring of people onto the bus. Steve’s eyes widen, but Natasha smiles at him, “We’ll talk more soon.” She steps off the bus before Steve’s area is flooded with people.

Suddenly there’s someone right beside Steve, a hand on the back of the couch. Bucky doesn’t disturb Steve’s supplies, although one boot-clad foot does end up on the cushion as he sits on the armrest like it was made for him. “Hey,” Bucky says, with such an effortless smile that Steve feels a little breathless. “Getting settled?”

Before Steve can answer, a duffle bag hits Bucky square in the face, disheveling his already mussed bun. A startled laugh slips past Steve’s lips. “Hey!” Bucky shouts indignantly, kicking out at the duffle bag culprit, who neatly sidesteps the attack. “Damn it, Dum Dum.”

Steve doesn’t comment that Bucky’s name calling could use some work, suddenly distracted by a second man who’s picking up his pencils. “Are you the artist?” the man asks, green beanie slightly askew. Perhaps he was also victim of a duffle bag attack.

“Everyone! This is Steve,” Bucky commands the room by standing up on the couch’s armrest. His slender leg is very close to Steve’s arm, he realizes and blushes lightly. “He’s the artist who did our album cover.”

There’s some whooping and cheers from the gathered band members. Steve’s blush deepens.

“Steve, this is,” Bucky points, “Dum Dum, Morita, Jacques, Gabe, and Monty.” Steve tries to follow, but they’re all so crowded together that he fears he already forgot half their names. 

“Wait,” Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “Why are you called Dum Dum?”

Dum Dum laughs. “There was an incident with some dumbbells a while back.”

“It’s a double entendre,” Bucky grins.

“Bucky is very generous with the nicknames,” Monty chimes in.

“Do I get a nickname?” Steve asks, looking up at the singer.

Bucky holds his gaze for a long moment. “I’ll get back to you, these things take time.”

“And humiliation,” Gabe rolls his eyes, smiling. He slings his bag over one shoulder before moving toward the back of the bus.

Companionable chatter fills the vehicle as Bucky sinks down into his previously held seat on the armrest. “You pick a bunk yet?”

“No, I thought I’d take whatever’s left.”

Bucky scoffs, grabbing Steve’s bag. “Hold on.” He joins the mass of band members at the back of the bus. Steve can’t help but crane his neck to watch Bucky squeezing between Dum Dum and Jacques before disappearing from view.

The bus hums to life around them, Natasha sticking her head through the door. “Last call before we get on the road!”

“Gabe forgot his radio!”

“Good riddance.”

“Use a phone for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s not the same.”

Steve has no idea who is saying what from the mass of bodies and bags filling the back of the bus, and he looks helplessly to Natasha. She just grins at him. “See you in Boston,” she says, before leaving him with the band.

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he turns to see Bucky grinning triumphantly. “The best two bunks in the back, you can pick if you want the bottom or the top.”

“Either is good for me,” Steve says, unable to resist a smile. Bucky’s grins are infectious.

“Fine, you can pick tonight.” Bucky sits back in his place on the armrest, allowing room for Steve’s materials. “Can I watch you draw?”

He’s surprised Bucky asks — most people just hover over his shoulder, looking at his work like they’re entitled. The art process can be rocky, but Steve can’t be picky in the packed bus. Besides, Bucky’s presence puts him at ease.

“It’s not really exciting, but you can watch. If you get bored it won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky smiles, getting comfortable.

The bus gets on the road, coasting down the highway. They exist in amicable silence after that, other band members drifting to and fro around the bus. Jacques makes an unprecedented amount of french toast at lunchtime, and everyone has to eat at least three pieces before the pile starts to diminish. It takes Steve a while to get used to drawing on the bus, deciding that it will be easier to work at night when they’re parked. But in the meantime he makes do, the handkerchief around his wrist blackening with charcoal.

Bucky taps his shoulder halfway through the afternoon, and Steve looks at his face, then his hand, which is offering an earbud. The other bud is plugged into Bucky’s ear. Steve takes the headphone and positions it, surprised by the smooth jazz beats. He doesn’t say anything and neither does Bucky, so he starts drawing again while they listen to the same music. Bucky falls asleep against the window, allowing Steve to sneak glances at him between shading the Boston skyline.

 

* * *

 

It’s harder to draw in the city, the starts and stops jostling him too much to make any progress. Steve puts away his pencils, looking out the window instead as they wind through Boston. When they pull up behind the venue and grind to a halt, he stares for a moment. “You’re playing at the House of Blues?” 

Bucky stretches, dropping the earbud out of his ear. “Hm? I guess so. Nat makes the schedule.”

Her ears must have been burning, because Natasha climbs onto the bus with a clipboard. The band members are drifting toward the door, ready to stretch their legs. “You have four hours before you’re needed backstage.” Steve perks up at the thought of seeing Boston, before Natasha says, “Steve, you’re with me.”

Bucky sends him a sympathetic look. “See you in a few hours, huh?”

“Yeah, see you later,” Steve replies, trying to squash down the sudden flutter of nerves.

Natasha leads him out of the bus and into a flurry of activity. A white van is open on all sides, equipment half unloaded in stacks. Other boxes and instrument cases are being removed from the undercarriage of the bus. There are at least half a dozen people Steve hasn’t seen before carrying things into the concert venue. Nat knows exactly where to go, striding through the chaos toward a woman with bright red lips, a colorful ribbon around her right wrist, and an armful of some very expensive looking equipment.

“Steve, meet Peggy Carter,” Natasha stops in front of the woman. “Peggy is our audio engineer, sometimes lighting director, and all-around roadie whisperer. Peggy, this is Steve, the artist.”

Steve doesn’t mind the shortness of his own introduction, and Peggy doesn’t either if the smile she gives him is any indication. “It’s a pleasure, Steve.” He’s met a lot of people in New York, but her English accent is still a surprise.

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Peggy also has the honor of prepping your drawings to be part of the stage production. After you finish with the latest piece, you’ll hand it off to her.”

“I’m eager to see what you come up with next,” she says, just as someone drops a box on the cement with a loud clatter. Everyone turns to look at the mortified tech. “Whoever breaks something has to work merch table after the show,” Peggy says, which sends everyone groaning.

Steve is a little confused, but excited. “My Boston piece is almost finished, I just need another hour — two at most.”

“I’ll get you set up inside,” Natasha says, checking her clipboard. They say goodbye to Peggy before grabbing Steve’s art supplies and heading into the building.

“How many people go on the tour?” Steve asks as they walk.

“Thirty-two, and it’s a pretty light crew.”

“Wow,” he blinks. “I don’t think I can even name thirty-two people I know.”

She smirks, opening a door to a small room with a table, two chairs, and a couch. “You’ll get to know them all very well, trust me.”

Steve starts organizing his supplies, carefully laying out the drawing again. He just needs to finish shading the buildings, and he’ll be done.

“Find Peggy when you’re finished. Give me your phone, you should have my cell number if something comes up and you need me.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

She stares at him for a handful of seconds, then, “Oh, you’re serious.”

He smiles sheepishly, tearing off a piece of tracing paper and handing it to Natasha. “Everyone else always has phones, I’ll just borrow someone’s if I need to call you.”

She shakes her head, but writes down the number anyway.

 

* * *

 

Boston is a 25-year-old woman, her dark hair braided to one side as the historic buildings of downtown disappear past her lips.

Peggy projects Steve’s piece across the entire back of the stage, the Howling Commandos Logo splashed above, like it exists in Boston’s surreal sky. Steve thought seeing his art on the bus was huge — this is so much bigger in every possible way. At least until a banner is unfurled over the back of the stage, the words Strike Squad blocked out in a circle.

“What’s that?” he asks the closest tech, who is tuning guitars beside him on stage left.

“What’s what?” the tech cranes his head to look. “Oh, opening act. They’re pretty good, a little intense though.”

Steve considers sticking around. The concert is scheduled to start in two hours, and he really wants to see Bucky and the rest of the Howling Commandos play. His stomach growls, reminding him that the only thing he’d eaten all day was Jacques’ french toast. While it was delicious, he could use some dinner.

The tech gives him a knowing look. “Caterers have set up in the back, they usually have sandwiches and stuff.”

Steve smiles sheepishly, then thanks him. He finds tables of food backstage, picking up a plastic plate to start serving himself a sandwich and fruit. It looks like an impressive spread, but according to one disgruntled bass tech who toured with Lady Gaga last summer, the food is mediocre at best.

He is friendly with the people he doesn’t know, somehow ending up making small talk with the bass tech. He tries to care about the man’s hatred of ham and cheese, but his gaze keeps wandering to the door, waiting for a familiar face. Eventually he asks, “When do you think the Howling Commandos will be back?”

The bass tech scoffs. “They’re not going to be eating back here with the crew. The band gets to eat at all the fancy restaurants, pick up girls…it’s criminal, honestly. We do all the hard work.”

It shouldn’t surprise him, but for some reason it does. He lets out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, looking down at his half-eaten sandwich and soggy melon. What had he expected? The bus is its own world, a three-hundred square feet bubble. But outside that bus? Bucky is rich. He’s famous. And he’s not going to eat from the catering table with Steve.

He doesn’t know a lot about going on tour — okay, he doesn’t know anything — but waiting for Bucky suddenly feels foolish. He doesn’t let himself be disappointed, instead finishing his plate of food (like his mother taught him) and excusing himself.

The bus is locked, of course. It takes a while, but he finds the bus driver on the side of the venue smoking and is able to get the keys. Next stop on the tour is Cleveland. Steve sets up on the corner table, booting up the laptop to get started.

 

* * *

 

“Have you been here since the concert started?”

Steve looks up from the preliminary sketch for Cleveland to Natasha, who’s leaning her shoulder against the open bus door.

“I wanted to get a head start.”

She studies him for a moment. “Why are you really here?”

He sets down his pencil, frowning. “There wasn’t really a reason for me to stay inside.”

She crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. “Did you practice that? Because it wasn’t very convincing.”

He looks down. “You’re probably right.”

Silence reigns for a long moment before she straightens. “Come on, we can still catch the end of the concert.”

He follows Natasha out of the bus, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming to get me,” he says quietly.

“Let’s not make a habit out of it, shall we?” she muses.

Steve smiles at her, and she smiles in return. 

The rooms backstage are deserted, the thrum of music filling the whole building. It grows louder as they approach stage right, the floor vibrating beneath their feet. His first glimpse of Bucky is under the harsh lights of center stage, his hair dark with sweat and starting to fall loose from his messy bun. The guitar appears a natural addition to his ensemble of tight jeans and a leather jacket, his fingers gliding over the chords as his voice fills the performance hall.

But what Steve didn’t expect was the screaming crowd. He watches from his angle backstage, a mass of thousands, their lips forming the same words as Bucky’s. There’s something surreal about it — the noise, the lights, the way Bucky smiles a little between lyrics when someone shouts out at him. He looks comfortable up there, a kind of blissful joy that Steve’s never seen in real life. There is nothing pompous about the bend of his knee or the downward tilt of his head, lips caressing the microphone.

It may have been one song or two that Steve stands there and stares, completely taken by the performance. It feels so intimate, the give and take between Bucky and the crowd. It’s grounding, and he finds himself completely present in this moment.

At some point, someone pushes something into Steve’s hand, but he barely notices. His eyes never leave Bucky, the smooth cadence of his voice making his heart beat faster.

The last chord starts to fade, and Bucky’s lips almost touch the microphone when he says, “Goodnight Boston!” The band starts to vacate the stage, and the noise is thunderous. Screams, cheers, and clapping fill the venue, drowning out everything else.

Bucky’s eyes connect with his as he walks off stage, Steve’s breath hitching. Bucky stops right in front of him, and his lips move but Steve can’t hear anything over the screaming and his own pounding heart. “What?” he shouts.

Bucky’s lips turn up at one corner and he leans in, right by Steve’s ear, “Is that for me?”

Steve’s cheeks heat up, but he blames the hot lights and the heat pouring off of Bucky. “What?” he says again, this time confused.

Bucky points, and Steve looks down at his hand. He’s holding a thermos, a piece of masking tape stuck to the side with Bucky scrawled in black sharpie. Steve blushes all the way to his ears, thrusting out his hand with the thermos. Bucky just smiles instead of saying anything else, and then takes a deep drink. Steve tries not to watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

Bucky pulls his bun loose, damp hair wavy around his face before his runs his fingers through it, pushing it back. One of the techs hands Bucky a towel, and he wipes his face. Dum Dum gives Bucky a slap on the back, saying something else that Steve can’t hear. Whatever it is, it makes Bucky laugh.

Bucky leans in to tell Steve, “Be right back,” before disappearing into the hallway backstage.

Steve just stands there, still blushing, the screaming from the crowd not seeming to abate. He turns to Natasha, who is eating an apple while sitting on a stool next to a series of monitors. “What now?” he yells to be heard, starting to get a bit of a headache.

She takes a bite of apple before replying, “They’ll go back on for an encore after a few more minutes.”

A few minutes later Bucky does return, his face clean and dry, jacket lost. His hair is still loose and wavy, brushing his shoulders. Steve thought the crowd would start to simmer down, but it feels like the screaming is getting louder.

“See you after the show?” he says, directly to Steve, to which he nods dumbly.

When Bucky strides back out on stage — alone? — the screaming increases tenfold. A tech rushes out after him with a new guitar and a stool, adjusting the microphone down as Bucky sits.

He strums a few chords on the guitar, the crowd hushing itself in order to hear him. One voice screams, “I love you Bucky!” and Bucky just grins and adjusts the guitar.

“Hey, what do you guys think about the woman eating Boston?” he asks, half turning to look at Steve’s drawing spanning the stage. Steve feels a wave of embarrassment rise up, shocked but also flattered. Bucky catches his eye as he’s straightening, giving Steve a wink. Steve’s cheeks are certainly flaming.

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty great too. That’s by the talented artist who did our album cover, Steve Rogers.” Steve has to steady himself with a hand on the wall, everything surreal as the crowd screams for him.

“We’re really lucky to have a great crew with us for our tour. A lot of folks make it possible for us to come play for you tonight.” And then he proceeds to name every person working backstage, and the crowd cheers for every one. There’s something magical about it, and Steve’s embarrassment fades as he realizes that Bucky isn’t doing this out of obligation, but genuine appreciation.

When he wraps up the list he plays a few more chords, the crowd humming with anticipation. “Are you guys tired of love songs?” The screaming is deafening, and Bucky grins. “If you know the words, you can sing along.” The crowd quiets down, thrumming with energy, a collective held breath. It’s just Bucky and his guitar under the hot stage lights, his lips against the mic as his fingers move over the strings and he starts to sing.

Steve is mesmerized, the soft tenor of Bucky’s voice permeating the hall. It only takes a few lyrics before the audience joins in, singing with Bucky. Names scrawled on skin, searching for a bond deeper than that inscribed into flesh. Steve’s hand subconsciously grips the handkerchief around his wrist, and he aches with Bucky’s words like they were pulled from his soul.

Bucky’s performance before was amazing, but this feels more personal. His eyes are closed, and every word squeezes an extra beat from Steve’s heart.

As the song comes to a close Steve can’t help but stare at Bucky’s profile, the roar of applause deafening. “Help me welcome the band back out on stage,” Bucky says into the microphone, and Steve slips away to catch his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for the wonderful words of encouragement on the first chapter of TMWAB. Now that I've gotten a lot of things established, expect the next chapter a lot faster!


	3. Chapter 3

“No, you have to alternate the direction you’re twisting it.”

Steve has no idea what that means, uncoiling the extension cord and trying to wind it around his arm again.

“Here, let me do it,” Peggy says, amused as he starts wrapping it in circles for the second time. She shows him how to properly coil the cord while Steve packs up the instruments.

Peggy’s cell phone buzzes on the guitar case, 2:34 a.m. flashing on the screen. Adrenaline is starting to fade, the exhaustion of the day creeping in alongside the satisfaction of a job well done. After she picks up the phone and replies to the text, Steve asks, “What brought you to the States?”

“Opportunity. Anyone who’s serious in this industry has to go to New York or LA.”

“But do you miss home?”

She pauses, as if she has to think about whether or not that’s true. “Sometimes. We all make choices about what’s most important, and for me that’s my work.”

They both turn as the stage door opens, Natasha striding over to them. She looks just as put together as she did at three in the afternoon, sitting on a stack of crates like they were placed there for her. “You’ll never guess what happened. Do you know Lorraine?”

“Of course I know Lorraine, we’re doing her job right now,” Peggy says, sounding peeved as the last equipment case snaps closed under her deft fingers.

Steve tries to place Lorraine, but all he can conjure is blonde hair.

Natasha’s lips curve up in a smug smile. “Her soulmate was in the audience tonight.”

“No — really?”

“Really,” Natasha confirms, crossing her legs and clasping her hands on one knee. “It’s good luck, we’ll get a crush of media coverage for this.”

“How did he know?” Steve asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“When Bucky was thanking the crew, he recognized her name. He grabbed a crew member, and they brought him back after the show. He was here with his girlfriend, and _that_ caused a bit of a scene, but it’s no matter. He and Lorraine are having a photo op with the band now.”

Steve digests the story, a little shaken by the whole thing — was it really as easy as that? “What will happen to them?”

Natasha shrugs, “We have a tour to finish, I don’t know what they’ll do. Lorraine will be with us for the rest of her contract, so they’ll have to figure something out. The tour is already getting a lot of press time, but this will give us a good boost.”

“They don’t even know each other,” Peggy points out.

“Does Lorraine seem happy?” Steve adds.

“You’d have to ask her.”

The adrenaline has completely deserted Steve now, leaving him heavy with exhaustion. Lorraine, a relative stranger, fills his thoughts. Sometimes he almost forgets about the name on his wrist, and then it comes back all at once. A shouted “James!” in the supermarket, a character in a movie, a name keychain at a New York souvenir shop. The anxiety of not knowing is always there, even when he pushes aside his supposed destiny to focus on reality. It’s a cage he’s inhabited for seven years, and as much as he insists that it doesn’t matter, the cage will always be there.

“Peggy, do you need any more help?”

She smiles kindly at him, and he imagines for a moment she understands. “No, you’ve mucked everything up enough. I can take it from here.”

He smiles in return, saying goodnight to the women before leaving the House of Blues to return to the coach. His bag is placed on a middle bunk in the back of the bus, curtains closed on other bunks where crew members are already sleeping. The shower is running in the bathroom, white noise added to the quiet shuffles of sleeping bodies. He quietly climbs into his cubby, elbow knocking on the wall as he tries to get out of his pants and shirt for sleep.

The tiny bunk presses in on him from all sides, like being put away for the night. He loosens the handkerchief on his wrist to sneak a peak at the name, just a dark blob on his skin in the dark. He exhales a wheezing breath, letting his eyes close to welcome sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Steve…Steve…”

Steve’s eyes open blearily, squinting through the darkness. Bucky’s face is very close, the curtain on his bunk pulled open only enough for him to see in, and he smiles when Steve starts to stir.

“Wha-?” he slurs, rubbing at his eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s late — or very early. I wanted to say I’m sorry I couldn’t see you after the show.”

Bucky is wearing glasses, he realizes, and something about that is endearing. Steve props himself up on his elbow. “You were busy, it’s okay,” he whispers.

“Do you want to go somewhere now?”

Maybe Steve is still dazed with sleep, but he blinks blearily. “Go where?”

“A place I know you’ll like.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it: “Okay, just give me a few minutes.”

Steve steps off the bus and into the ring of light from the streetlamp, and Bucky smiles at him. “It’s just a little walk. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

They start down the sidewalk, walking in time, the city quiet around them. Steve zips his jacket against the nighttime chill just as Bucky pops a piece of gum into his mouth. “Can I have some of that?”

Bucky tips the pack toward him, “It’s the nicotine kind.”

“Oh, I guess not then. Do you smoke?”

“I decided to quit.”

“How long has it been?”

“Just a week or so.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “You decided to quit right at the start of the tour? Isn’t that bad timing?”

“Why do you think so?”

“I don’t know. I’ve heard it’s hard to do when you’re under a lot of stress. Tour seems…stressful,” he finishes lamely.

Bucky laughs, a sweet sound in the subdued noises of a city at night. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

The sky is starting to turn grey above them, a car driving by every few minutes. Steve realizes, “This is the first time we’ve been alone together.”

“I guess it is,” Bucky says, sending him a smile.

Color rises in Steve’s cheeks, and he looks down at his feet for a moment before looking back at Bucky. “Why did you come get me now?”

It takes a moment for him to respond, and Steve watches his jaw move as he chews the gum in thought. “You looked disappointed when you couldn’t come out with the band before the show.” They round a corner, the sound of rushing water joining the sounds of a city waking up. “I thought you should see Boston before we leave.”

The city opens up to reveal the Charles River, their road becoming the Harvard Bridge. Bucky gestures for Steve to follow him, and they take the footpath out onto the bridge. The wind is cutting without the shelter of the buildings, but Steve is too in awe to notice. The sun is starting to brighten the sky to the east, backlighting the skyline.

They stand in silence for a moment, each resting their forearms on the bridge railing as the sky starts to turn orange.

“After drawing it…I’m glad I saw this before we left. I didn’t do it justice.”

“Boston is a beautiful city,” Bucky agrees quietly, and Steve glances sidelong at him, admiring how the sun lightens his hair and reflects off his glasses.

“It is beautiful. Too bad their baseball team sucks.”

“They’re the fucking worst,” Bucky says without hesitation. There’s a pause, and they share a smile. “Did you catch the Yankees game Saturday?”

“After Friday’s debacle I couldn’t even stand it. What a disgrace.”

“But you still watched the game Saturday,” Bucky grins.

“Of course I watched,” Steve huffs.

They talk about the Yankees at length, debating the team’s current standing and roster. The bridge is alive with people by now, cars heading to work and fast-walking businesspeople crossing with their briefcases in hand.

Steve looks out at the city one more time before smiling at Bucky. “Do we have time to get breakfast?”

“Absolutely.” They start to walk back the way they came.

“Hey…what do you think about Lorraine finding her soulmate?” Steve isn’t sure why he brings it up, suddenly very curious about Bucky’s thoughts on the matter.

“It was a little weird, to be honest.”

“Was it?”

“What do you say to someone in that situation? Congratulations?”

Steve opens the door to the diner Bucky indicates, and they take booth by the window. No one glances twice at them, Bucky looking more like a sleepy college student than an international rockstar.

“Did they seem happy, at least?”

Bucky scrunches up his nose. “I suppose — it’s hard to say. We’re heading out today, so I don’t know how they’re leaving things.”

Steve nods. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Leaving your soulmate?”

“No, finding him — her, them,” he stutters, cheeks suddenly heating.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky says with such a reassuring smile that the air leaves Steve’s lungs. He reaches across the table to give Steve’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Love is love, right?”

Steve looks down at the sticky tabletop, cheeks still flushed. “You can’t love someone without knowing them.”

Bucky studies him for a moment. “You’re right.”

Before they can say anything else the waiter arrives, asking for their drink and breakfast orders. Bucky’s hand is gone from his arm. Bucky orders coffee with eggs and turkey sausage, and Steve orders coffee and pancakes. Steve focuses his attention on slowly unwrapping the roll of silverware the waiter left him, waiting for his mortification to pass.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Steve looks up at that, taking in the furrowed line of Bucky’s brows and the set of his mouth. “Of course.”

The waiter brings their coffee, the low buzz of restaurant chatter filling the silence until they’re alone again. Bucky considers him for a moment, takes a drink, then says, “Pierce offered me a solo contract after the tour ends. He wants me to leave the band.”

Somehow that wasn’t was Steve was expecting. He holds his coffee with both hands, warming his fingers. “Are you going to do it?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I haven’t decided yet. I like the Howling Commandos, they’re my family.”

“Do you have time to think about it?”

“A few months.”

“Maybe it’s best to just focus on the tour. See where it goes, and what makes you happy.”

Bucky holds Steve’s gaze for a moment, then nods. Steve’s cheeks are flushed when Bucky says, “Okay. I’ll see what happens.”

Their food arrives shortly after, and they eat in silence for a few moments. Steve takes a drink of coffee to wash down a bite of pancake before saying, “If you do end up making another album and need a cover artist…” He smiles shyly.

Bucky laughs. “I know the best artist in Brooklyn.”

“ _Best_ might be too generous.”

“Now you're just being modest. What are you doing after the tour?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.” 

“It sounds like I’m not the only one with decisions to make.”

He smiles slightly at that. “Cut me some slack, I’m still figuring this whole thing out.”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky smiles into his coffee, taking a drink.

Bucky picks up the check when it comes time to pay, telling Steve he can buy the next breakfast. The promise of another meal together warms him, and Steve finds himself agreeing despite his usual objections to accepting any form of perceived charity. They walk back to the bus, Steve sad that their morning together is coming to an end. 

The parking lot is much livelier than when they left just a few hours before. The van is almost loaded, and people are milling around with donuts and cups of to go coffee.

Bucky discreetly nods over to a couple standing at the edge of the parking lot, and Steve finally places a face to Lorraine as she talks to who can only be her soulmate. The whole conversation looks a little uncomfortable, Lorraine holding her arms close to her body while the man gestures too much. The exchange ends in an awkward hug.

“Don’t stare,” Bucky whispers.

Steve hastily looks back to the singer and gives him a sheepish smile. “More coffee?” he says to distract them.

Bucky smiles, and leads the way to the huge coffee urn set up outside the tour bus. 

“There you two are.” Natasha stops beside them, getting herself a cup of coffee. “We’re on the road in fifteen.”

Bucky hands Steve a coffee, and they share a smile before boarding the bus.

 

* * *

 

Cleveland is a Black woman, kinky curls framing her face as the Terminal Tower and its surrounding buildings disappear into her mouth. Austin is a college age Hispanic man, the reflective siding of the Frost Bank Tower reflecting the city back on itself as it disappears past his lips. Oklahoma City is a white teenage girl, and Albuquerque a Native American man.

Steve can now say with confidence that he knows every single person on tour, the group coexisting with ease as they find their rhythm. He’s never drawn so much in his life. He worried that drawing the same concept again and again would become monotonous, but so far each city has presented new challenges. Better still, Bucky takes him around every city they visit, even if it’s only for an hour before they take off for their next destination. When Bucky is missing, the crew has taken to asking Steve where the singer is. Embarrassingly, Steve usually knows the answer.

The moments with Bucky are what he looks forward to most. While the rest of the band has adopted him into their family without reservation, being alone with Bucky is special. He’s learned a lot about the rockstar in just under two weeks. Their childhoods are mirrors in some ways, having grown up in Brooklyn boroughs just blocks from each other. Bucky’s dad left when he was seven, and Bucky’s mom worked at a department store in New York to support the family. Bucky has a little sister, and grew up Jewish.

Steve keeps building an image of who Bucky is inside his head, and every day he’s tearing it down and putting in new pieces. Nothing about Bucky is unimportant or boring. He hates marshmallows. His jacket smells like leather oil. He wears his glasses during the four hour window it takes his contacts to clean. It’s in the mundane things that Bucky becomes less the untouchable rockstar, and more the friend Steve wants him to be.

They’re spending an extra night in Albuquerque before heading to California. Steve has seen more of the country than he ever dreamed, and they’re only just getting started. He’s sitting in his corner, now the designated art studio, blocking out the important landmarks of Los Angeles. Bucky is sitting with Gabe on the other couch, playing cards. Dum Dum is somewhere in the back strumming a guitar.

Nat joins them on the bus, moving to sit by Steve on his couch. She checks something on her phone before saying, “I may have withheld information from you.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow and he looks sidelong at her. “What are you talking about?”

Everyone is clearly eavesdropping now, sensing something juicy about the happen.

“Two of your pieces went up for auction this morning at Christie’s.”

Steve’s eyes widen, thinking of the New York auction house which sells some of the most expensive and famous works of the last two centuries. “But — it’s so soon?”

“I didn’t want to distract you before you finished Albuquerque.”

He sets his pencil down gingerly in its case, feeling a sick sense of dread. “Did no one buy it?”

“That’s crazy, someone must have bought it,” Gabe pipes up.

“Yeah, I’ll buy it,” Bucky says, starting to sit up.

Gabe shoves him back down to his reclining position, “No way, I’ll take Boston.”

“Everyone will have their chance at the next auction,” Nat muses. “Both pieces sold.”

“Someone bought them?” Steve asks breathlessly.

“Two separate buyers. And more than a hundred people placed bids.”

He almost chokes. “A hundred people wanted my drawings?”

“I haven’t even told you how much they sold for.”

Steve stands, shaking out his drawing hand to relieve a cramp. “I don’t think I want to know,” he says, still shocked by the sheer number of people wanting to purchase his work. To go from selling two sketches on a good day to art snobs in bidding wars over his work is a jump.

“You want to know,” Natasha says, eyes following him as he starts to pace.

“Do I?” Steve looks to Bucky, and he nods encouragingly. “Okay, okay — I do.”

There’s a long beat of silence before, “Four hundred thousand.”

Another beat. 

“Dollars?” Steve says, voice high.

“Oh shit,” Dum Dum says from the back of the bus.

Steve just stands there, in a daze until he’s being pulled into a warm, tight hug. It breathes life back into him, and he blinks before inhaling soft leather. “Congratulations,” Bucky says, and Steve can almost hear it from inside his chest.

Natasha is smiling. “That’s Cleveland.”

“Not both of them?”

“Boston was almost seven hundred thousand.”

Gabe whistles, impressed.

“That’s more than a million dollars,” Steve says, dazed as he grips the back of Bucky’s jacket. Then he smiles up at him. “That’s more than a million dollars.”

Bucky grins. “Yeah it is.”

Steve laughs, gripping Bucky a little closer. He’s overwhelmed with shock and joy, wondering — not for the first time — if this is all a dream. Then he remembers where that money is going, and he smiles even wider. “I have to call Sam.”

“Who?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrow slightly.

Steve steps away from the hug, missing the warmth but too excited to stay still any longer. “My friend Sam. Can I use your phone?” 

Bucky fumbles his phone out of his back pocket, unlocking it before handing it over. 

“I’ll be right back.”

New Mexico is blistering hot outside, so Steve stands in the shade of the bus as he dials Sam’s number. After two rings he picks up and Steve says, “Sam, it’s Steve.”

“Steve! How’s the tour going?”

Steve looks up at the bus and thinks of bumping shoulders with Bucky on the couch, breakfast food, and being part of a family. “It’s really, really good. But that’s not why I called.”

“What’s up?”

“Two of my pieces went up for auction today. They raised more than a million dollars for the kids in Brooklyn.”

There’s silence on the line for a moment before, “Oh my God.”

Steve laughs, a slightly manic sound. “I know — I know, it’s completely unreal.” 

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep drawing, and hopefully keep raising money. I never dreamed it would be so much. But I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Quit your job. We have to start our own nonprofit.”

Sam actually laughs. “You would, wouldn’t you.”

“I just — we can’t hand a million dollars off to strangers to take care of those kids. I trust you with this.” Steve fiddles with the buttons on his shirt during the silence while Sam considers.

Finally, “You knew I’d say yes.”

Steve grins from ear to ear. “Thank you, _thank you_.”

“Yeah, well, a million dollars isn’t a _horrible_ start for a 501(c)3.”

If possible, his smile widens. “I’ll get you more. We’re going to change the lives of teens in Brooklyn, Sam.”

“I’ll get the paperwork started, work on a mission statement and the like. I’ll email you when I have something.”

They talk a few more details before saying their goodbyes and hanging up. When Steve boards the bus again, the band members are abuzz with talk about his drawings.

“They’re worth even more than that,” Jacques is saying.

“I knew he wouldn’t have any problem selling them,” Gabe counters.

Bucky stands up when Steve joins them, and Steve hands the phone back. “Thanks.”

“How’s Sam?”

“Good,” Steve smiles. “We’re going to start a nonprofit to help homeless teens in Brooklyn.”

Bucky’s expression softens. “That’s a really good thing you’re doing, Steve.”

He blushes. “I’m in a position to do good, so I have to make the most of it.”

“You will. And Sam, he’s…?”

It’s a broad enough question that Steve doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking — but his heart jumps at the possibility. “He’s good. He’s my friend, a social worker. He’s going to handle getting the nonprofit started.”

Bucky smiles, looking a little relieved by the answer. “That’s awesome.”

“I’ve scheduled two interviews for you tomorrow,” Nat says from the couch.

It takes Steve a moment to realize she’s talking to him. “Wait — interviews?”

“Your work is getting very popular. ARTnews and Time Magazine both want to talk to you.”

“I — what do you say in an interview? That will be a disaster.”

“You’ll be fine. We’ll do a preinterview where we go over the questions and you can think about what you want to say.”

“Interviews are all the same,” Dum Dum adds. “Do one, you’ll have done them all. Might as well rip off that bandaid.”

There must still be anxiety on Steve’s face, because Bucky says, “Maybe I could be in the room when he takes the interview call?”

Nat looks unconvinced. “You’re a distraction.”

“He doesn’t distract me,” Steve lies.

She sends him a dubious look. “He can be there for the preinterview — we’ll both be there. And I’ll be there during the interview.”

Bucky and Steve share a helpless look.

“Oh Christ Nat, let them do the interview together,” Dum Dum says with a laugh.

Natasha smirks. “We’ll see. It’s really not as big a deal as you’re thinking, Steve.”

“I’m really awkward when it comes to this stuff.”

“Luckily it’s just over the phone. You’ll sound great in print.”

 

* * *

 

Los Angeles is hot and smoggy when they roll into town early the next morning. Steve didn’t sleep well, too wired from the success of his work and the upcoming interviews. When he crawls out of his bunk he finds Bucky on the couch. Without a word, the rockstar pours him a cup of coffee.

Steve watches the city go by outside, content with the silence.

When they pull into the parking lot that will be their home for the day, the bus is starting to show signs of waking. There’s a red Camaro in the lot, a man in a purple t-shirt and sunglasses leaning against the driver’s side door. Steve sips his coffee, squinting out the window. “Is he waiting for us?”

“Not for us, no,” Bucky says, starting the crossword puzzle on the back of the cereal box.

Natasha steps out of the van, striding across the lot, her red hair loose and bouncing with each step. She smiles before the man’s arms wrap around her and they kiss.

“Oh,” Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Who is he?”

“That’s Clint. He works in Hollywood — stuntman, I think.”

“So he’s in movies?”

“Oh yeah, loads of them.”

The pair are walking back toward the bus, Clint’s arm around Natasha’s waist. Steve sees a glint on his finger and his eyes widen. “Are they _married_?”

Bucky laughs, “No, definitely not. They are soulmates, though.”

Steve digests this new information before he looks at Bucky. “Oh my God, is _he_ married?”

Bucky eats a piece of cereal dry, smiling slightly. “Yes. And he has children.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “But why…?”

“Natasha knows. Clint’s wife knows. It’s not a secret, in fact I think they all like each other very much.”

He continues to frown, trying to puzzle his way through it. “I suppose, if they’re all happy. It just seems strange.”

Bucky shrugs. “Their lives aren’t so perfectly aligned as some people’s are. They both travel a lot for their jobs. Clint wanted children, and Nat didn’t. But every time I see them together, they look like they’re in love. They just can’t give everything the other person needs to be happy.”

Steve thinks of his mother and father, and how imperfect love can be. “She does seem happy now.”

Bucky looks out the bus window to confirm, and Natasha does indeed look brighter than she had since the tour started. “I’m glad. She deserves it.”

“Everyone does,” Steve says softly.

Clint and Natasha join them on the bus, and Steve stands up to shake Clint’s hand. Natasha introduces him as her boyfriend, and up close Steve is surprised by the bandaid across his nose and the yellowing bruise around his eye. Stuntman, he reminds himself.

“You all should come over to my place for lunch,” Clint says with a laid-back grin.

“We can’t, Steve has an interview at one,” Natasha says, checking something on her phone. “But we could do dinner.”

“I’ll tell Laura,” Clint says, then to the assembled group, “Who’s coming?” He counts hands. “Okay, revised plan. Who doesn’t mind eating on the couch?”

Bucky grins at Steve, and they raise their hands. It feels so normal, and he’s suddenly so glad that Natasha has found her soulmate.

“I think everyone could use a home cooked meal,” Natasha muses. “All of you eat a bunch of crap.”

“Kosher crap,” Bucky corrects.

“I had an apple yesterday,” Steve adds.

“I haven’t eaten fruit in years,” Monty says with a slightly dazed expression.

“What if the fruit is fermented?” Jacques asks. 

“How you aren’t all dead is beyond me,” Natasha shakes her head.

 

* * *

 

The hotel where the band is playing has conference rooms, and Steve, Natasha and Bucky take over one small room. Various papers are spread out on the table in front of Steve, his nerves palpable. Bucky left at one point to bring him coffee, and after a few drinks Steve realizes it’s decaf — thank God, or else he’d be shaking even more.

“Everything they’re going to ask you is here, and I’ll be with you the entire time,” Natasha says more than once.

Bucky sits closer than usual next to Steve, occasionally picking up a paper to read the questions to himself. “Just be honest,” he says. “Here, let’s practice.” Bucky turns his chair, gesturing for Steve to do the same until they’re facing each other. Bucky pulls his hair back, tying it into a bun before making a show of sitting up straight, his face a mockery of seriousness. “Mr. Rogers — what was your inspiration for the Howling Commandos cityscape series?”

Steve doesn’t know why he’s blushing, wringing his hands in his lap. “Um, well, the record company asked me to draw it, so…”

Bucky reaches over to gently separate his hands, giving him his coffee cup again. Steve calms marginally.

“Try one more time,” Natasha says from the other side of the table.

Bucky repeats the question, and Steve swallows before answering, “My goal is to capture a piece of every city we visit on the tour. The United States is so diverse, and I think it’s important to show that people come from different places and different perspectives when they listen to the Howling Commandos. There isn’t one type of fan.”

Bucky’s eyes are intense, holding his gaze. “What do you say to people who view your work as a commentary on a lack of diverse representation in art and media?”

“I’m not really the person to be talking about that, being a white man and all. But if my work starts a discussion, then that’s a really good thing.”

“So you do agree there is a lack of accurate representation?”

“Absolutely.”

Bucky nods. “And what’s it like working with the band?”

“The band is really wonderful. They’ve been so welcoming and encouraging of this project. I couldn’t do it without them.”

“And what about Bucky?”

Steve’s cheeks heat, wanting to look away but he’s trapped by Bucky’s gaze. “What about him?”

“How do you like working with him?”

“He’s — great, really good.” Steve blushes harder.

Natasha taps her fingers on one of the pages, sending Bucky a warning look.

Bucky clears his throat and continues, “Any plans after the tour?”

“Nothing yet. I am working on starting a nonprofit, so I’d like to spend some time in Brooklyn to get that off the ground.”

“Tell me about your nonprofit.”

“The goal is to help homeless and underprivileged kids in Brooklyn, particularly teenagers. All my art sales are going to the project — if my art can make a tangible difference in people’s lives, well. That’s all I want.”

Bucky looks to Natasha, “He’s ready.”

She nods in agreement.

Bucky smiles at him, and suddenly Steve feels like he can take on the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come harass me on [tumblr](http://almostcanon.tumblr.com/) for the latest on updates. Thank you all so much for your support.
> 
> Art for the last chapter by Archiart can be found [here](http://almostcanon.tumblr.com/post/137129835651/).


	4. Chapter 4

“I told you the interview wouldn’t be a big deal,” Dum Dum says between slurping up pasta, the bowl precariously held with one hand as he balances on the arm of the sofa. They didn’t all fit at the kitchen table, so the band is scattered around the house like the children’s toys.

Steve takes a bite, swallowing before he smiles. “No, it was good. Once we got started it didn’t seem nearly as bad as I’d made it out to be. Natasha kept me on track.”

“She does that,” he muses. “Did she do the thing?” He demonstrates, eyebrows drawing together in a very disapproving look.

Steve lets out a bark of laughter at the likeness. “Only twice.”

“Then you’re a natural.”

Steve chuckles, taking another bite of spaghetti. His gaze wanders over to Bucky, who’s listening very intently to Clint’s son explain the superpower origins of his action figure. Somehow Bucky was roped into the kid’s table, looking comically large in the tiny chairs. His smile is wistful when he looks back at Dum Dum. “I’m curious, how did the band get together?”

Dum Dum’s hand going to the brim of his bowlers hat, pulling it off to show Steve. “Bucky was working at a pawn shop in south Brooklyn. I went in, about to sell this hat for the last few dollars I needed to buy my own guitar. I’d been borrowing a buddy’s for ages, but he was moving away…and I told Bucky how I wanted to be a musician. He just got this sort of grin and said ‘Me too.’ We started talking, and met up a few times to practice together. Bucky got a job singing covers at a bar, and brought me along. That’s where we met Monty — he played piano at the bar on Wednesdays. We didn’t meet Gabe, Jacques, and Morita until we signed with Hydra Records. The day we signed Bucky handed me this package and said it was a congratulations present. I open it, and it’s this damn hat I sold him two years before.”

Steve can’t help but smile, inspecting the hat. “I didn’t know he was that sentimental.”

“Writers have to be, I think. He knew the hat meant a lot to me, or else he wouldn’t have snatched it. I don’t know what he would have done with it if we’d never made it.”

“He made you wait two years?”

“I can’t say for sure if he had it for two years. He might have gone back to the pawn shop and no one wanted the dusty old thing. But it belonged to my father, so it meant a lot.”

Steve looks back over at Bucky. “He is very thoughtful.”

Dum Dum’s quiet for a moment before he says, “You know, the whole band is really happy you’re here.”

Steve looks back at him, a little surprised. “I’m glad I came. Not many people get a chance like this.”

He nods. “Bucky especially is glad you’re here.”

Steve blushes a little, “Is he?”

“He talks about you a lot.”

Steve’s heart starts beating a little too fast, and he stands. “I’m going to help Laura with the dishes.”

Laura is not opposed to help in the kitchen, and Steve ends up with a pair of yellow rubber gloves, hands buried in sudsy water. It’s after Natasha distributes popsicles to the kids, who go outside to play on the swing set, that Clint literally pulls Steve away from the sink.

“You’re being summoned,” Clint grins, taking the gloves to put them on himself.

Steve doesn’t know what to expect when he rounds the corner to the dinning room, but all the band members are huddled around with a suspiciously cheap looking bottle of tequila, pouring it into various containers.

They all turn to Steve when he appears, and Dum Dum grins. “This is your initiation.” He hands Steve a mason jar with amber liquid at the bottom.

Steve blinks. “Initiation?”

“It’s a band thing.”

“Jesus, give Steve the actual shot glass,” Bucky grins, taking the only shot glass from Gabe to swap it with Steve’s mason jar. The glass says Las Vegas on the side, in lettering that’s starting to chip. Bucky’s tequila is in a wine glass.

Steve looks around at them all, and has to breathe a laugh. “You guys know I don’t play any instruments, right?”

“You’re an honorary member,” Bucky grins. “We took a vote.”

“This is a diplomacy,” Monty adds.

It’s the first time Steve has felt completely accepted — like what family is supposed to be. Bucky must realize that he’s speechless, because he takes over again, raising his wine glass. “To our newest band member.”

There is a chorus of ‘here here!’ Steve raises his shot glass, the tequila smelling like lighter fluid. It tastes as bad as it smells, and he makes a face as it burns down his throat. Dum Dum is laughing, clasping Monty on the back as he coughs.

“That was a horrible idea,” Jacques says, looking down in his teal drinking glass.

“That’s what we get for using whatever Clint has around,” Gabe scrunches up his nose.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dum Dum chuckles again.

“It was pretty bad,” Bucky says, while pouring himself another shot. “Anyone for seconds?”

Everyone holds out their glasses.

 

* * *

 

Steve takes a sip of coffee (“good to burn the taste out of your mouth,” because apparently no one here has heard of toothpaste,) sitting beside Clint on the porch swing. Band members and children run around the yard, Natasha pushing Clint’s daughter Lila on the swing.

Watching the scene, Steve can’t help but ask, “How did you and Natasha meet?”

Clint smiles, “I got an email from a company asking me to meet one of their producers about a job on a new action pilot. So I show up at this cafe, not knowing who I was supposed to be meeting. Nat sits down across from me, offers her hand across the table and says, ‘I’m Natasha Romanoff. You’re my soulmate.’ And then she cracks open this huge binder and starts pitching the show.”

Steve grins, “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he laughs. “And I’m floored — I don’t know what to say for a good few minutes except ‘I’m engaged.’”

“But she’s your soulmate too?” It’s a rude question, and he immediately regrets asking it.

Clint doesn’t seem bothered. “She is. But I’d been dating Laura for years, and we were finally ready to tie the knot. I was in it, you know? I felt bad about outright refusing Natasha, it felt cruel. I expected her to just walk off and for that to be the end of it.”

Steve thought of Natasha’s endless energy and laser-sharp focus. “I can’t imagine her walking away from anything until she’s done with it.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Clint says with a snort. The pair watch as Laura distributes cookies, and Natasha stands with her by the swing set to talk. Clint smiles at the sight of them. “You know, Nat didn’t even miss a beat. She said, ‘I’d love to meet your fiancée.’ I thought it was a horrible idea. I thought it would be insanely awkward — actually I was terrified, because I didn’t want Laura to think I was looking at someone else when we were about to get married.”

“But you didn’t say no, obviously,” Steve smiles a little.

“I didn’t even have the chance. And Laura and Nat hit it off.”

Steve is silent for a moment, watching the women. “But how did you…” his voice trails, feeling embarrassed. It was probably the cheap tequila still coursing through his veins.

Clint finishes the thought for him, “Decide that polygamy was a great idea?”

Steve smiles sheepishly.

Clint clasps him on the shoulder. “Lots and lots of talking about it. What I have with Nat is really special, but so is what I have with Laura. We all complete each other’s lives in different ways.”

Steve digests that for a moment, thinking about James on his wrist and Bucky growing in his heart. “I’m glad that love outside the soul mark isn’t a disaster for everyone.”

Clint chuckles warmly. “Most people would have you believe that it’s the be-all and end-all, but reality isn’t so simple. I’ve been really lucky.”

Watching Clint’s family, it’s obviously true. “Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Steve says sincerely.

“Hey, any friend of Nat’s is a friend of mine. You guys are always welcome.”

Steve warms at that, and smiles. He adds more family members to the growing list.

 

* * *

 

LA isn’t just a tour stop, but a week of press and partying. The band is scheduled for five talk shows, seven radio shows, and two concerts. To break up the work, the group crashes a karaoke bar. Steve and Peggy sing a bad duet of the Howling Commando’s song “Written In The Dark,” and Bucky, on a dare and two shots of tequila, sings Adele’s “Hello.” This haunts the rest of the week when the band repeatedly locks him out of the bus until he sings “hello from the outside.” (It’s on Gabe’s YouTube.) Bucky ends up fielding “possible Adele duet” questions all week.

The extended stop is a much needed break for Steve, who plans ahead on his new drawings and enjoys sleeping in a stationary vehicle. It’s just turning to dusk the night of the Howling Commandos second LA concert and Steve is in his bunk, sketching concepts for the soldier representing San Diego. Bucky busts through the door of the bus dripping wet. 

Steve stares for a moment, and Bucky holds up a finger. “Don’t say anything.”

“I didn’t,” he smiles slightly.

“Not a word.” 

He’s dripping on the floor as he moves toward the back of the bus, and starts to peel off his shirt. Steve’s cheeks suddenly heat when he gets a good view of Bucky’s toned torso as he stops in front of Steve’s bunk, his own bed below. He bends down to start rooting around in his sheets. “Did you move my bag?”

Steve wants to disappear, trying to look anywhere but Bucky’s bare back inches away. “Why would I move your bag?”

“I thought it was on my bunk.”

“No it’s in the cubby — no, the right one.”

Bucky makes and ‘ah ha!’ sound when he finds it, giving Steve a two fingered salute before disappearing into the bathroom.

Steve presses his hands to his cheeks, trying to calm his burning skin.

Bucky exits the bathroom a few minutes later, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. His lounge pants are low on his hips, providing Steve with a sliver view of stomach between his t-shirt and pants hem. “Hey, want to watch a movie?”

Steve gives up on pretending to draw, tucking the sketchbook away. He smiles. “Sure. You want to go to the theater?”

“No, I thought we could watch something here.”

“On the laptop?” He props himself up on his elbows.

“Or on the TV in the bunk?”

Steve just blinks at him. “What?”

Bucky actually laughs. “How long have we been on this bus? Do you really not know about the TV?” He leans over Steve in the small bunk, grabbing the center ceiling piece, pulling down the flat monitor and flipping it to face Steve.

Steve is sure he’s about to burst into flames, not even breathing with Bucky inches away. “I — it’s — not something I noticed.”

Bucky smiles at him, still remarkably close as he leans into the opening of Steve’s bunk. “So what do you say? There’s a whole bunch of movies on there.”

Steve finds himself nodding without any real thought to how this would work.

“Awesome, use the little arrows to scroll,” Bucky instructs, heading to the kitchenette.

Steve starts to scroll through the list of movies, feeling flustered. “I could have figured that part out.”

Bucky just grins at him, damp hair falling into his face as he pulls down a box of Life cereal. He opens it on his way back to Steve. “What looks good?”

Bucky with damp hair and warm eyes and the full weight of his attention on Steve looks very good. “I-I don’t know,” Steve stutters. “You should pick.” He starts to scoot over to make room for Bucky in the tiny bunk, his heart fluttering like a bird in his chest.

“Nah, stay there. Here, take the Life.”

Steve takes the cereal, and suddenly there’s a very warm body pressing against him as Bucky climbs over, ending with his back against the wall. He doesn’t dare breathe until Bucky is settled, stock still with Bucky’s thigh and chest pressing against Steve’s side. “That’s — do you have enough room?”

“I’m good,” Bucky replies, and he’s close enough that Steve can feel the breath of his words against his skin. His hair prickles, and he swallows, starting to click through the movies again.

“What kind of movie do you want to watch?”

“Oh, what about this?” he reaches up and his hand crosses Steve’s in the process, the leather straps on his wrist against Steve’s forearm. Steve’s whole body heats with a mix of embarrassment and something more pleasant, a deep pull from behind his sternum.

He has to blink a few times to see what movie Bucky is pointing at. A startled laugh slips past his lips. “Gone with the Wind?”

Bucky huffs. “Don’t judge, it’s a great movie.”

“No, I completely agree. You just surprise me sometimes.” He turns his head to look at Bucky, so much closer than usual. Silence hangs for a moment, and Steve knows with certainty that this is not just friends hanging out. He should be in turmoil, but suddenly things seem simple and clear, his mind and heart in agreement. He’s chosen.

Bucky is the first to look away, color tinting his cheeks that Steve has never seen before. It’s different than the flush he has after a show, or when he’s had too much tequila. It’s a rush when Steve realizes he put that color there.

“It’s four hours, so we’d better get started,” Bucky says with a seriousness that Steve can suddenly see through.

He smiles, just a little, as Bucky presses the button and produces earbuds from his pocket. When he plugs them in he hands one to Steve, like they’d done countless times. Except now they are in bed — a very small bed, at that — and Bucky is pressed against him. Steve slides the earbud into his ear.

“Close the curtain, will ya? Glares on the screen,” Bucky says, voice a little gruff, his Brooklyn accent bleeding through.

Steve grabs the curtain and pulls it closed, blushing. When he’d slept here the last few weeks the bed felt small, but livable. Now it feels smaller, and cosy. Bucky radiates heat against his side.

They settle in with an easy intimacy, all of Steve’s reservations evaporating as they watch Scarlett O’Hara navigate life and love during the Civil War. Bucky whispers trivia into his ear, surprising Steve at first with his obscure knowledge about American history. Steve starts to ask questions about the film, and they whisper back and forth during lulls in the movie.

Steve relaxes, munching on the Life cereal that migrates around the bunk without an easy place to rest. At one point, he’s picking up pieces from a small pile resting on Bucky’s chest.

Steve becomes more absorbed in watching, and Bucky whispers his name. “Hm?” he replies, turning his head. Bucky’s lips press against his without pretense, and Steve stops breathing. The kiss is short, probably because Bucky is afraid he’ll start having an asthma attack, although their foreheads rest together. He realizes Bucky isn’t breathing either — he’s waiting. Steve’s hand moves to his cheek, taking a gulp of air before kissing him firmly.

In his ear, Rhett Butler says to Scarlett, “You should be kissed often, and by someone who knows how.”

Steve laughs against Bucky’s lips, a breathless sound, and he feels Bucky smile. “Did you plan that?”

His arm wraps around Steve’s waist, pulling him in closer. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“Absolutely not.”

Bucky is laughing when he kisses Steve again, tilting his head so their mouths slot together. The earbud gets knocked out of Steve’s ear as they shift in the small space, Steve’s fingers sliding into Bucky’s hair. 

Steve can’t blame the heat of Los Angeles for the sudden rise in temperature, feeling almost feverish as his shirt rides up and Bucky’s bare hand presses against the small of his back. Breathing becomes difficult, and at the same time unimportant. It’s Bucky who breaks the kiss to instead press his lips to Steve’s neck, touches fervent and exploratory. Steve’s eyes close as his head tips back, breath rattling as his lips part for air.

When a leg presses between Steve’s thighs his eyes pop open again, a sound slipping past his lips.

“Okay?” Bucky whispers into his ear, and his voice sounds raspy like it does after a set, before Steve hands him tea or coffee. So close to his ear, it makes him shiver.

Steve’s voice isn’t working, but he’s nodding emphatically. Bucky pulls back enough to smile, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. Steve melts against him, his hands gripping Bucky’s hair and t-shirt. If they were close before, he doesn’t know what they are now. The movie continues, casting them in soft blue light as they kiss.

“Bucky!” the shout doesn’t register for a moment, Steve blinking away the haze as their lips part. It’s Natasha’s voice.

Bucky frowns, yelling back, “What?”

“Ten minute warning, I need you backstage.” The bus door clunks shut behind Nat, leaving them alone again.

There’s a concert tonight — Steve completely forgot. He takes the moment to catch his breath, their legs still tangled together.

“I have to go — but I need to talk to you later,” Bucky says, a note of desperation in his voice.

Steve nods, “Okay.” He kisses him again, intending it to be a soft touch until Bucky presses him into the mattress, and suddenly the contact is loaded with heat and weight, their bodies pressing in ways that make Steve squirm. His back arches up instinctually, his insides coiling like molten lava.

Bucky’s fingers trail along Steve’s spine where his back leaves the mattress, and he murmurs a curse against his lips. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

Steve breaths a laugh, flopping back fully onto the bed again. He’ll be flushed for days. “Go. I’ll see you after the show.”

Bucky kisses him one more time, the touch fleeting, and then slides over him to exit the bunk through the curtain. Steve hastily swipes it aside so he can watch Bucky, who looks disheveled, his lips a deeper red than usual. Steve can’t help but smile, a little sheepishly. He probably looks the same.

“I don’t understand why I have to work for a living,” Bucky grumbles, pulling his hair back and using a band on his wrist to secure it in a bun.

“I really can’t envision you in a nine to five job,” Steve breaths a laugh. “Go play your concert, I’ll be there when you’re done.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Bucky says, leaning in for a last kiss before yanking on shoes and running out the door. 

With nothing else to do, Steve picks his earbud back up, still hot and humming with excitement. He watches the rest of the movie. 

In the climatic scene Scarlett cries, clutching to Rhett Butler as he says, “You think that by saying I’m sorry, that all the past can be corrected?”

 

* * *

 

“You seem unusually happy.”

Steve’s cheeks heat up at that, looking down at his sketchbook. He was smiling without realizing it. “I’m always happy.”

Peggy hums, not believing the simple explanation but still smiling. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good look on you. I’m glad for you, Steve.”

“Thanks,” he says with a small smile in return.

The concert is starting to wrap up just down the hall, which means the crowd is twenty times louder than they have been for the last hour and a half. Steve wandered this way to be closer when Bucky wrapped up for the night.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.” He would have said yes anyway, but distraction was a good idea right now.

“I need an extra pair of hands at the merch booth — just for an hour. Can you help out?”

Bucky will be inundated with autographs and photo sessions after the show, so helping at the booth selling t-shirts would kill time until Steve can see him again. “I’d be happy to help.”

“You’re a lifesaver. It’s easy, I just need a warm body to help keep the line moving.”

He laughs. “You make me sound so dispensable.”

“It’s a merch table, not an operating room. No special skills required,” she says with a smile.

He throws a pencil at her playfully, and she makes a sound of protest. “Get out of here, Rogers,” she laughs.

He packs up his drawing supplies, slinging the bag across his chest before venturing out to the venue’s ticketing and vendor area. The final encore just finished, and people are trickling out of the hall. Steve hasn’t spent much time on this side of the stage, and seeing the band from the crowd’s point of view is refreshing. Chatter gradually fills the room as the energy bleeds over from the concert hall during the mass exodus. Steve catches pieces of conversations:

“Did you see Gabriel tearing up that guitar?”

“Bucky looked _right at me_! For the whole song! I think I had a heart attack—”

“But I really like the new CD, I’m glad they played so many songs from it…”

“I love the drawing for LA better than the others. Do you think they’re going to sell prints?”

Steve cranes his neck to find out who was talking about his work, feeling a little giddy with the excitement of it all. He didn’t see where he was going, knocking right into someone.

“Oh my _God_ , watch where you’re going!”

“I am _so_ sorry,” Steve says hastily, steadying himself and the teenager he bumped into. Something dark on her wrist catches his eye, and he does a double take, like seeing a car crash on the side of the road. Three lines of text send alarms in his head wailing at the indecency.

She sees his line of sight and sneers, “What, do you have a problem?” She pushes her wrist right into his face, and something inside him grinds to a halt as three familiar words stare back at him. Not even words. A name.

“What—” He grabs her arm without thinking, and she shoves him back hard, causing him to stumble a step.

“Freak, you can’t go grabbing people! Where’s security?”

“No, I’m—” His heart is beating too fast, too many people, too much. “I’m sorry you — is that?”

“Jesus, calm down. It’s temporary, okay? No need to go all prudish on total strangers.”

Pieces his brain refused to put together are fumbling themselves into place now, the horror of it making it hard to breathe. “But that’s,” he swallows. “Who is that?”

She stares at him like he’s dumb, holding up her wrist again. “How can you be an HC fan and not even know Bucky’s full name?” Three little lines, so familiar, stare at him in smudged black ink. James Buchanan Barnes.

His throat feels tight, wheezing as he takes short, quick breaths. James Buchanan Barnes. He knows those words better than any others, he should have realized — how didn’t he see it? Bucky. Buchanan.

The girl is looking at him with alarm now. “Are you okay?”

It sounds like he’s in a tunnel, listening from far away. For a surreal moment he wonders if this is an asthma attack or an anxiety attack. Sometimes it’s the same thing, one manifesting in the form of another.

He doubled over at some point, hands on his knees. His bag. His inhaler is in his bag. His bag is around his chest. The girl is yelling for someone to help. The girl who wrote James Buchanan Barnes on her wrist. The girl who knew Bucky’s name when Steve didn’t.

Someone is squatting down in front of him. Not the girl, another girl. She’s wearing a vest. It has pockets, and a name badge. She’s asking him questions that he can’t really understand. Each breath is short, coming in rapid bursts. The air is freezing as it struggles down his throat, settling like a stone in his chest. He says something, maybe, and she starts tearing through his bag. He fumbles the inhaler from her hands, struggling to inhale two puffs of the medicine.

His chest is still painfully tight and his palms sweaty, but something in his mind starts to clear. The girl with the homemade mark is gone. “Move out of the way, make a path,” the girl is saying — the one in the vest. She helps him walk to the side of the room, and he sits down heavily on the edge of a planter. She pulls a walkie talkie out of one of her pockets, speaking into it in clipped tones, codes and numbers that he doesn’t know. “There’s an ambulance outside, the EMT is coming to take a look at you,” she says kindly, crouched in front of him again. “Are you here with anyone?”

Steve shakes his head no, more an automatic response than anything.

The woman hands him a water bottle from one of her pockets, and he just holds it between his hands. “Your breathing is sounding a little better.”

He nods, still too shocked to process the possible ramifications of what he’s learned. The EMT arrives with a big bag of supplies, and starts asking Steve a series of questions. What’s his name, what medications does he take, does he have any asthma triggers. Steve rasps out answers as best he can. 

Finally the EMT hands him a new inhaler, telling him it’s a bronchodilator. Steve’s emergency medicine is a corticosteroid. With his mind still reeling, he wonders detachedly how much all this will cost. The EMT listens to his lungs, then deems him okay to move.

“I want you to sit in the back of the ambulance for a while so I can keep an eye on you. If your breathing doesn’t continue to improve, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Steve just nods, numb. 

The girl in the vest smiles at him kindly. “Feel better.”

“Thank you — _thank you_ ,” he repeats, more emphatically the second time.

When he’s led away he realizes he doesn’t know her name. He turns to look back but she’s already gone.

 

* * *

 

The parking lot in front of the concert hall slowly starts to empty, cars honking and sirens wailing not far away despite the late hour. Steve sits in the back of the ambulance, legs dangling over the edge, the EMT checking him periodically between chatting with the paramedic up front.

Steve is still in something of a daze, trying to reconcile the abstract concept of the name on his wrist with the real person he has feelings for. The consequence seems just out of his reach — how would this change his feelings? How would it change everything? Did it even matter?

“You really need to be on a long term control medication,” the EMT says, not unkindly. He hands Steve a package of juice, which must mean Steve is supposed to drink it. He nods. He could never afford seeing a doctor, let alone the ongoing cost of medicine without insurance, but maybe he can now. “Do you want me to give you the names of some good pulmonologists in the area?”

“I’m from New York,” Steve shakes his head. His voice is still raspy, throat thick but less so now. He takes a drink. “I’ll see one when I get home.”

“Sooner rather than later,” the EMT insists.

“What happened?!”

Steve looks up at the sound of Natasha’s voice, her heels clicking on the asphalt as she beelines for the ambulance.

“Is this your…?” the EMT starts.

“Manager.” Natasha sends him a look, lifting her walkie talkie. “Found him,” she says.

The reply is instantaneous, “Where is he? Is he okay?”

Steve’s heart seizes at that voice, every thought he’d been struggling to repress coming flooding back. He wheezes, and the EMT is right in front of him again with an inhaler. Steve takes it with some effort, feeling light headed.

“Nat? Nat where are you?” the walkie crackles.

Natasha watches Steve through this, her surface expression impassive, calculating. She lifts the walkie talkie, “He’s fine. I’ll report back.”

“What? Nat—” She twists the button on top of the device, and Bucky’s voice disappears.

Steve looks down at his lap, swallowing hard. His hands are in his lap, the handkerchief he wears around his wrist drawing his gaze.

Nat says something to the EMT, and after a moment of negotiating he goes to the front of the ambulance and Natasha sits down beside Steve.

Slowly Steve’s breathing returns to a semblance of normal, each rattling breath the only sound between them. A car horn blares on the nearby street.

“How did you find out?” she asks, voice quiet.

His gaze jumps up to her face, lips parting to question how — then he remembers who he’s talking to. His expression crumples, stomach twisting. “Does it matter?”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agrees. Silence again.

“It’s…it’s a lot,” Steve says finally, voice shaking. Kissing on the bus, morning walks, sharing earbuds — it suddenly feels so much bigger. So much scarier, weighed down with expectation.

“I have five hotel rooms across the street for band and staff,” she says decidedly. “You can have one tonight.”

Something in his chest flutters. It feels like relief. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I just need…to think.”

She nods, and still sits with him. He looks at her side profile, lit harshly on one side by the streetlamp.

“Would you…would you have told me?”

“No,” she says honestly. It doesn’t sting like he thought it would.

“Was he going to?” he asks next.

She considers a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know.” A beat. “Steve — whatever happens from here, I’m your manager. I’m here to protect you, just like I protect him.”

He doesn’t really comprehend the scale of what that means, but it’s comforting. “I’d really like to get out of here.”

“Let me go talk to the paramedics,” she stands. “And Steve?”

He looks up at her.

“It’s going to be okay.”

He believes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments, I can't wait to hear what you guys think of this one.


	5. Chapter 5

The hotel room feels bigger than the whole bus. Logically he knows it isn’t, but the emptiness only adds to the vast feeling. It’s the middle of the night, but he takes a hot shower. Humidity always helps his breathing — as a kid his mom would make him lean over a pot of boiling water and inhale the steam. Whether there’s a medical reason to do this he doesn’t know, but out of habit he cranks the knob over to hot and just breathes the wet air in. Even the shower is huge, strange and luxurious.

The bed is the exact opposite of his cubby tucked into the side of the bus — which might be a good thing. The plush mattress swallows him, and he stares at the ceiling for a long time with a damp spot on the pillow growing under his hair. Each breath still rattles in his lungs, his chest tight and sore like it’s been crushed under an elephant’s foot. Even when he closes his eyes, his mind won’t turn off. The warmth of Bucky’s hand against his back. The little smile he gets when their eyes meet. The way he leans in close when they share headphones. The sound of his laugh. Steve’s eyes open again, exhaling a slow, wheezing breath.

He gets up and opens his bag, slowly laying out his drawing supplies on the duvet. The lamplight over his paper is harsh and yellow. Something about that soothes him, and he starts sketching. At first he tells himself that he’s doing thumbnails for the upcoming cities, but then a jawline starts to look familiar, followed by a nose. He flips the page and starts again, trying to keep his breathing at slow, steady intervals. A pair of eyes develop on the page, soft and smiling around the corners, their gaze warm. He pushes the notebook aside.

He sits with his back against the headboard and turns on the television. After half an hour of flipping through channels, he looks at the clock. 3:45 a.m. He hesitates before picking up the phone. He does the math twice in his head before dialing the number he knows by heart.

“Hey Steve! How’s LA?”

Sam’s voice is familiar and it helps relax the turmoil brewing inside him. His eyes close, leaning his head back against the wall. “It’s not New York,” he says wistfully, voice still raspy.

There’s a beat of silence before Sam responds, “Isn’t it really early there? Everything okay man?”

Steve thinks about asking for advice, but stops himself. This is something he needs to work out alone. But he can still be honest. “I had a really bad asthma attack tonight.”

“Oh God — did you end up in the hospital?”

“No, the paramedics were close and I got medicine fast enough…I’m okay. I just miss home.”

“You know Brooklyn isn’t going anywhere.” He can hear the warm smile in Sam’s voice, and it soothes the ragged edges of his mind.

“I know,” he laughs softly.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Sam is being kind and offering him another opportunity to get what’s bothering him off his chest.

“I want to talk about the nonprofit,” he says decidedly. Those kids are part of the reason he’s doing this — he needs perspective. He needs to think about something outside of the tour bus bubble and the name on his wrist. Just for a small reprieve.

Sam humors him. “We found an old tenant building that needs a lot of work. I think it’ll make for a great headquarters when we fix it up. We can have floors of rooms for kids, drug counseling, tutors, after school programs, everything you can think of.”

“It sounds perfect,” he whispers.

“It will be. I’ll send you pictures. You know, our 501(c)3 status hasn’t even come through yet but we’re already getting donations. People must have seen your interviews, because they just keep sending checks from all over the U.S.”

He smiles at that, relief filling him. “I can’t believe people are already donating.”

“Oh, and get this — we got a half a million dollar donation a few days ago.”

He sits up at that, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, the guy said he wants to be an ongoing supporter. He wants to sponsor a music program for the kids.”

Something in the back of his mind niggles at him. “Maybe we can meet with him when I get home.”

“I’ll ask him to set up a meeting, we can talk about starting an endowment or something.”

His eyes close. “What’s his name?”

“Barnes, I think? I can check.”

Even though he guessed it, Steve’s heart stutters in his chest. “No, it’s okay.” He swallows, looking at the sheets. “You getting ready to go running?”

“You know me,” Sam says cheerfully. “You should catch some shuteye Steve, especially if you’re still recovering from that asthma attack. I can hear it in your voice.”

His mind is buzzing faster and louder than before, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re right — yeah, I know you’re right.”

“You sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about?”

“Not…not today. I might call you again tomorrow.”

“You can call me anytime. Try to get some sleep?”

“I will.” They say their goodbyes, and Steve feels like his skin is too tight for his body. He gets up to go to the minibar. Bucky made that donation days ago. He planned to support the Brooklyn Project and knew it would get back to Steve eventually. It’s too much to wrap his head around, so he focuses on the price list in the fridge door. His mother would roll over in her grave if he spent that much money on a candy bar, so he puts it back, closing the fridge door.

There’s no way he can sleep now, despite his promise to Sam. He puts on his shoes, shuffling downstairs with damp hair. The lobby is empty save for the tired-looking receptionist, and Steve goes to the small convenience store in the front of the hotel. The snacks are slightly less overpriced.

There’s only one other person in the store save the cashier, and Steve’s heart does a little flutter at the sight of him. Bucky, in his glasses, buying cigarettes at the counter. Steve never put much stock in fate, but coincidence isn’t a strong enough word. There’s plenty of time for Steve to slip out unseen, but instead he takes a chance and says, “I thought you quit smoking?”

Bucky turns around fast, his eyes a little wide. “I did — Steve, your voice…” His tone is heavy with concern, eyebrows drawn together.

Steve just nods, and grabs cough drops and a bag of gummy worms. “It’s, um…I’ll tell you later,” he says quietly, putting his things on the counter.

Bucky hesitates, clearly restraining himself while Steve pays. Finally he says, “Can we talk now?”

Steve thinks about the eyes he drew, about the donation, and the name on his wrist. His throat feels a little tight, but he nods. “Come up to my room,” he offers.

The trek to the elevator is quiet, and while they’re waiting to reach Steve’s floor Bucky nervously taps the top of the cigarette pack he hasn’t opened.

“What did Natasha tell you?” Steve asks finally, the doors sliding open.

“Nothing,” Bucky admits. “I kind of…well, I guessed…”

Steve fumbles his card key out of his pocket, having to turn it around twice to get the door to open. “What did you guess?” he asks, when they’re finally inside. The door closes softly behind him. Only the single lamp is on in the room, over the bed where he was drawing an hour earlier.

Bucky just looks at him, concern and regret twisting down the corners of his lips. “I guessed that you found out….I didn’t know…I didn’t know you were sick.”

“I had an asthma attack,” he admits quietly, leaning against the door.

“Are you okay now?”

“I’m better. It takes some time for my breathing to get back to normal.”

They’re silent for a long moment before Steve opens his bag of gummy worms and offers it out to Bucky. Bucky steps forward to accept, looking hopeful as he takes a bite.

“I was going to tell you,” Bucky says finally.

“I believe you.” There is a beat of silence before Steve continues, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair before his hands go to his hips, looking distressed. “I — can we sit down?”

Steve nods, and only hesitating a moment before going to sit on the bed, crossing his legs. The notebook is still laying open, and his chest feels tight again when Bucky looks at the page. It’s surreal. 

“You were drawing me.” Bucky’s voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.

“Yes,” Steve replies, voice rasping. He tears open the bag of cough drops, unwrapping one slowly before putting it on his tongue.

Bucky is watching him through all this, his concern closer to the surface again. “I never would have—” he stops himself and starts again, “If I’d known what I was putting you through, I would have told you weeks ago.”

“The same thing could have happened if you told me earlier,” he says, and means it.

Bucky doesn’t seem convinced, looking down at the notebook. “I was worried what would happen if I told you.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Did you think I could be using you?” he asks hesitantly.

“What? Fuck, no, of course not.” Bucky runs his fingers through his hair again, mussing it. “I knew the moment I saw you in Pierce’s office that you’d never…you wouldn’t take advantage of the mark for your own gain.”

Steve is quiet again, waiting for him to continue.

“I didn’t want things to be weird,” Bucky finally admits. “I didn’t want to scare you off or…or make you feel like this was a done deal. I wanted to get to know you first, so we could both decide if…if going forward was a good thing for us.”

“But everything you did for me — with me — was because of the mark,” Steve says quietly.

“At first,” Bucky admits. “I’ve waited my whole life to meet Steven Grant Rogers.” He looks down at the duvet. “And I wanted to get to know you better, see if you lived up to…everything I had in my head, I guess.”

“Did I?” he whispered.

“You’re better,” Bucky smiles softly, looking at him again. “It was only about the mark in the very beginning. After that, I just wanted to be around you. You’re really special, Steve. I feel good, at ease in my own skin when I’m with you.”

Steve’s cheeks warm at that. “I know what you mean.” They sit there, silent for a moment before Steve bites his lower lip. His nerves rise, but the words come forth on their own. “Can I — see your mark?” he asks haltingly.

Bucky actually blushes, a beautiful stain on his cheeks, and without a word starts unfastening the leather straps covering his wrist. When they fall away, he holds out his arm for Steve to see the three small rows of text, deeper than skin, his name spelled out plainly as day.

Hesitantly Steve reaches out, fingers sliding over the smooth underside of Bucky’s wrist. It’s paler than the rest of his arm, always hidden from the sun and prying eyes. He wonders about the people who would do anything to see this — invade his privacy just to know who the famous Bucky Barnes is destined to love. Out of everyone in the world it’s Steve, chosen by fate or destiny or random luck of the draw.

Bucky’s eyes never leave Steve, a shiver running through him as Steve's fingers continue their idle stroking. Silence stretches for a moment before Bucky leans forward, pressing a warm kiss to Steve’s lips.

Steve’s fingers curl around Bucky’s wrist, his other hand moving to the nape of his neck. The kiss is tender, with the promise of something more. But it’s only a few moments until Steve’s breathing grows ragged, the air rattling in his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps when Bucky pulls away, hand falling back to his lap.

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky says quietly. “I’m sorry I put you through this.” He looks at Steve’s wrist, covered by a handkerchief smudged with black charcoal. “Can I…?”

Steve’s blush darkens, and he nods.

Bucky is gentle as he unties the multiple knots that ensure the kerchief doesn’t accidentally fall off. When the fabric drops to the bed Bucky holds his wrist, admiring his given name inked into Steve’s skin. His thumb strokes over the letters, and desire curls in Steve’s belly.

“You know, at first I worried that you wouldn’t have my name,” Bucky whispers. “But the more time I spent with you, the more I got to know you…it didn’t matter. I wanted to be with you whatever was written on your skin.”

Steve can’t look away, feeling exposed in a way he never has before. He leans in, pressing a soft, brief kiss to Bucky’s lips. Their foreheads rest together, Steve’s wheezing breath the only sound between them for several long moments.

“Are you still hungry?” Bucky asks eventually, voice low.

“No.” The letdown of all his emotions, paired with the stress of his asthma attack, leaves him exhausted beyond words.

Bucky must read the tired hunch of his shoulders and the labor of each breath, because he asks next, “Do you want to sleep?”

Steve nods, eyes closing for a moment, the closeness of their bodies comforting.

“Do you want me to go?”

His eyes flutter back open at that, searching Bucky’s gaze. “I’d like you to stay,” he says quietly. “If you want to.”

“I want to,” is the immediate response.

The moment could have stretched to awkwardness, something about the air between them fresh and new, the first time standing on shaky legs. Before it can stretch too long, Steve says, “I bet you steal the blankets.” He smiles slightly.

Bucky’s smile melts into feigned shock. “Don’t you dare slander my name like that.”

Steve breaths a laugh. “We’ll see.”

And just like that they’re at ease again, disappearing to corners of the room to get ready for bed. They share the hotel-supplied tooth brush, which in Steve's mind is somehow the most intimate thing they've done. Bucky kisses him with minty lips and a warm smile, and Steve wonders how he lived his whole life without this.

Steve wears his t-shirt and shorts to bed, the flicker of self consciousness distinguishing as Bucky wraps an arm around him and draws him into his naked chest. Bucky, he already knew from weeks on the bus, wears boxers or pajama pants to bed (depending on the weather). Tonight, without an overnight bag, Bucky is left with the option of boxers. Steve can’t really say he minds.

He listens to Bucky’s breathing for several long minutes, his own subconsciously sinking to the rhythm. His naked wrist is against Bucky’s chest, the name blurring to blotches in the dark.

Steve licks his lips. “I heard you donated to the Brooklyn Project.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” He sounds interested.

“It’s a working name. Do you like it?”

Bucky hums. “It’s short, concise. Have you drawn up a logo yet?”

“No, not yet,” he murmurs, shifting in a little closer. “Haven’t had time.”

“After the tour.”

“After the tour,” he agrees, exhaustion weighing him down. But then he realizes what that means, and wakes himself back up. “Are you coming back to Brooklyn after the tour?”

“I don’t know yet — do you want me to?”

“That’s a stupid question,” Steve muses.

Bucky smirks, Steve can feel it against his hair. “Yeah, silly me. Go to sleep, Steve.”

“Don’t be a jerk.” He smiles, fingers curling against Bucky’s chest.

“Don’t be a punk.”

Steve hums, finally letting his eyes close to sink into a warm, deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

Part of the transition to becoming a roadie is being able to sleep through anything. So when the quiet is interrupted with a bang, it doesn’t phase either of them. Until it continues, developing into a steady cadence of knocking.

Steve blinks his eyes open blearily, still feeling exhausted. He couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours. “Whas ‘hat?” he slurs, voice rasping over his scratchy throat.

“The door,” Bucky mumbles, sleeping on his stomach, arm draped over Steve like it belongs there. He doesn’t move a muscle.

“Maybe they’ll go away,” he mutters, eyes sliding back closed.

But it the knocking doesn't stop, a familiar voice hissing, “Steve, don’t make me go get the manager.”

He reluctantly sits up, Bucky’s arm flopping down into his lap. Bucky makes some sound of complaint before turning onto his side, grumbling. Steve rubs the sleep from his eyes as he pads quietly to the door. He opens it, looking bleary-eyed at Natasha. “Can’t be morning,” he murmurs. The light peaking in from the curtains is still soft and grey.

She’s holding a duffel on one shoulder, everything about her perfectly coifed and ready for the day. She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to let me in?”

Steve is still blocking the door with his body, and he hesitates, thinking of Bucky in the bed. Then he realizes his wrist is still uncovered and belatedly jerks his arm behind his back. She knows what it says, but the mark feels too private to be waving around.

“I know he’s in here.”

His whole body heats with a blush, and he wordlessly steps aside to let her into the room.

Bucky is having none of it, already sound asleep facing away from them. Natasha dumps the duffel bag on top of him, then goes to open the curtains and let in the early morning light. Steve squints against it, going to sit on the edge of the bed.

Bucky groans, arm covering his eyes. “Nat, why are you in our room?”

All Steve hears is ‘our room,’ and he smiles a little at Bucky’s back.

“You have Ryan Seacrest in an hour, and Steve has a doctor’s appointment.”

“Ryan Seacrest?” Steve asks, just as Bucky peaks out from under his arm and says, “Doctor’s appointment?”

“He’s a radio show host,” Nat says to Steve, while ushering Bucky up. “Go get dressed. The paparazzi knows you’re in the building, you’re going to go out through the restaurant kitchen.”

Bucky grumbles, peaking into the duffel and digging out some clothes.

Steve tries not to find it endearing that his hair sticks up on one side of his head. He has to mentally shake himself, glancing to Natasha. She saw him looking, but doesn’t mention it. He clears his throat, “So what about a doctor?”

“He’s the best in Hollywood.”

“Oh,” he blinks, then shifts uncomfortably. He’s trying to be discreet about tying the handkerchief back around his wrist. “Um, I don’t have health insurance.”

Bucky looks at him with a strange expression on his face.

Steve barrels ahead, “Really, I’m feeling better from last night.”

“The appointment is already made. I’m covering you under the tour insurance policy.” Natasha pulls out her phone. “Fifty minutes.”

Bucky scowls and disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on a moment later.

Steve is blushing, sitting on the bed listening to Bucky shower while Natasha taps something away on her phone. “You really didn’t have to make me an appointment.”

“It’s already done. I told you I’d look out for you.”

He smiles softly. “Thank you.”

“Now hurry up and get dressed, there are clothes in there for you too.”

He pulls the duffel over, and sure enough, there is an outfit for him as well. He holds the clothes for an awkward moment and finally says, “I should…get dressed.” It’s a lame attempt at a hint.

“The bathroom is that way,” she gestures over her shoulder with her thumb.

Steve’s whole body heats, but he can’t exactly turn it down. He walks quickly over to the bathroom, and takes a breath before opening the door and closing it quickly behind him. “I’m going to change in here,” he announces, so there aren’t any surprises.

The shower curtain pulls back enough that Steve gets a view of Bucky, wet hair pushed back from his face, and water running down one strong leg. Steve abruptly looks away, lest he catch on fire.

“Did Nat put you up to this?” Bucky asks, sounding a little amused.

“Yes — I mean, no. I need to get dressed.” He grabs the edge of the curtain and pulls it shut.

Bucky is laughing, a warm sound. “You sure you don’t need a shower?” he flirts.

“I took a shower last night,” Steve splutters.

“I was joking, Steve.”

“No you weren’t.”

A pause. “Not if you said yes, I wasn’t.”

He blushes hotly, wiping steam from the mirror. He starts pulling off his clothes quickly. “Maybe next time.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Steve looks at himself in the mirror, the narrow shoulders and the unhealthy jut of his ribs, and feels an uneasy wave of self consciousness. He pulls on his shirt just as his reflection is disappearing behind a fresh wave of steam. “Natasha’s waiting,” he reminds him, gathering up the clothes he slept in and slipping out the door.

Natasha is standing at the window, looking down at the ground some stories below. “This is what I hate about LA.”

Steve joins her at the window, and spots a cluster of people around the hotel entrance, holding expensive looking cameras with long lenses and large flash attachments.

He blanches, abruptly stepping back from the window. “Can they see us?”

“The windows are tinted on the outside,” she says, crossing her arms.

“Why haven’t I seen them before?”

“New York and LA are the biggest cities for the paparazzi. The Howling Commandos are popular, but not interesting enough for photog stalkers to follow us around the United States. They found the hotel after last night’s show.”

Steve feels uneasy looking at them, so distracted he doesn’t notice the shower turning off in the bathroom. Bucky joins them a moment later, pulling his wet hair back into a bun. “How bad is it?” He looks down at the assembled crowd. Interspersed with the paparazzi is fans, some holding Howling Commandos signs and others with Bucky’s name and hearts. “We can go out the front,” Bucky says finally.

“We don’t have time.” Natasha pulls her bag onto her shoulder.

“Sure we do — what, forty-five minutes?”

“You still have to drive to the studio,” she points out patiently.

“Plenty of time.” Bucky sends Steve a large grin. “Can’t let them ruin the morning, huh? Besides, the fans would be disappointed.”

Natasha catches Steve’s eye, and gives a ‘what can you do?’ shrug.

Steve smiles a little. “We should probably go, if you want to go out the front. Don’t you have security?”

“I’ve already texted them, they’ll meet us at the elevators,” Natasha says, checking her phone.

“What about Steve’s doctor’s appointment?” Bucky asks.

When Bucky turns toward the window, Steve is mesmerized by the water droplets clinging to the back of his neck.

Natasha keeps them on track, herding them closer to the door. “Walk and talk. He’s meeting with Dr. Erskine. He’s on the cutting edge of a lot of research.”

Steve slings his bag across his chest, grabbing the leftover gummy worms and stuffing them inside. He double checks the knots on his handkerchief, noticing Bucky watching him. He smiles a little, and Bucky smiles back.

“One second,” Bucky says, at the door. He grabs Steve around the waist and kisses him squarely on the lips.

Steve doesn’t even have to think about it, hands finding the damp skin at the nape of Bucky’s neck. He kisses him like he couldn’t the night before — deeply and fully as he leans into him.

“Forty-two minutes,” Natasha interrupts, holding the duffel in one hand, other hand on the doorknob. 

Steve blushes when he draws back, giving Bucky a small smile. He has the taste of Bucky’s lips to sustain him through the day.

Bucky steals one more quick kiss before taking the duffel from Natasha and they exit the room.

“I’m going to need to talk to you two this evening,” Natasha says when they reach the elevator, and she presses the down arrow. “We have to make sure everyone is on the same page.”

“Can Bucky and I talk about it together first?” They still hadn’t talked about what they wanted to be to each other.

Natasha shrugs, “But if you do anything stupid before then, I can’t help you.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky muses. 

They load into the elevator, and Steve flashes back to the first time he met Bucky and Natasha — in the Hydra Records elevator. He can’t resist slipping his hand into Bucky’s, giving it a squeeze. “We’ll be okay until we can all sit down and talk.”

“No PDA, no social media,” Nat says.

“I don’t have a Facebook,” Steve blinks.

“He doesn’t have a Facebook,” Bucky echoes, with a slight smile.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Don’t get one before you talk to me. We control the flow of information.”

Steve and Bucky have stepped apart by the time the elevator doors roll open, and sure enough two bodyguards meet them. Steve recognizes them from past shows, but hasn’t spoken with them before. 

“The car is waiting for you out front,” the man with brunette hair greying around his temples says.

“We’ll drop off Bucky at the studio, and then I’ll take Steve to his appointment,” Natasha says.

“I could just take a cab,” Steve speaks up.

“No,” Nat and Bucky say at the same time.

Before Steve has a chance to object, they’re outside in a flood of flashing lights. He blinks rapidly, stopping in his tracks, overtaken by the shouted questions, screams, and lights.

“Take Steve,” Bucky says over the noise, before turning to the crowd. He has produced a sharpie from his pocket, and he’s signing things pushed into his face by fans.

A hand on Steve’s elbow steers him out of the line of fire, and he blinks away the spots in his eyes as Natasha opens the car door and they climb into the backseat. The noise abruptly deafens when the door closes, and he sits there dazed for a moment. “Is it always like this?”

“Yes,” she says, studying him. “Today no one cares who you are, but all that will change if word gets out about you two.”

Steve watches Bucky make his way through the crowd, taking a selfie with a fan before signing something. “He looks so comfortable out there.”

“He’s used to it. You would be too, eventually.”

“I don’t think I would,” he admits, thinking of how forced and awkward he always looks in photographs. Not to mention the stress and noise. But then he thinks of Bucky — being with him, and how good that feels. “He’s worth it, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting!


	6. Chapter 6

Steve turns the bottle over in his hands, reading the label a third time. Calcium, magnesium, sodium, bicarbonate…

“But it’s water,” he whispers to himself.

“You’re supposed to drink it,” Natasha explains patiently from her chair across from him. She flips the page in her magazine.

Steve sets the scary expensive looking bottle aside, fiddling with his sleeve instead. “When that woman offered me water, I didn’t know it would be…” he searches for the word, “something else.”

Natasha smiles slightly. “It’s mineral water.”

“It’s a _glass_ bottle. And it’s not in English.”

She just hums in response, going back to her magazine.

Steve is silent for another moment, eyes searching the room. It reminds him of his hotel suite the night before, spacious and modern. There are fresh flowers in a vase by the door, and a flatscreen television mounted to the wall. Although it’s muted, CNN news highlights the main stories of the day. “Abortion clinic bombed in Miss.: Three dead, multiple injured,” the bottom bar reports. They show a clip of protestors yelling at the police line, waving signs. One reads, “Killing babies makes Unmarked.”

Steve looks away, fiddling with the button on his cuff. “This isn’t like any waiting room I’ve ever been in,” he says finally.

“This is Beverly Hills. If a doctor is expensive enough, you wait in a private room. It’s so other patients don’t see you.”

“I don’t mind if other patients see me.”

“That’s because you’re not famous. Or getting your boobs done for a third time.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I thought you said this was a general practitioner.”

She waves a hand at him. “He is, that was a bad example. People with money value their privacy. Thus, the waiting room.”

Steve kicks his feet anxiously, mulling that over.

Finally Nat sighs. “Would listening to Bucky’s interview make you less fidgety?”

“I’m not fidgety,” he says, but the prospect perks him up. “How can we listen to the interview?”

Nat digs around in her bag, pulling out three cell phones. Steve lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. She selects a phone, puts the others away, and plugs in earbuds. When the iHeartRadio app opens on the screen, and she passes it to Steve.

“Just try to relax,” Nat suggests.

Steve puts the earbuds in, ignoring the TV and the flowers and the expensive water. He closes his eyes, tuning in halfway into a pop song that is familiar in an abstract way.

When the song concludes a man’s voice comes through, “You’re listening to Ryan Seacrest, joined this morning by the members of Howling Commandos. Morning guys — great to have you in the studio. How is LA treating my favorite East Coast boys?”

“Good, really good.” Steve recognizes Gabe’s voice. “We’re almost halfway through the City Streets tour, and we’re hitting our stride.”

Steve’s heart clenches as he remembers how many folders he’s worked through on his computer, and how few are left. The days are clicking by fast.

“You know I tried to get tickets to your LA show, and they were instantly sold out,” a woman’s voice says, presumably the co-host.

“That’s crazy, we can get you guys into the next show.” Monty’s voice.

There’s some talk about the concerts so far, then the conversation goes in a different direction.

“So am I right that all of you are single?”

Steve’s eyes open at the question, finding it startling and personal. But what makes his stomach twist is that he already knows how they will answer.

“We’re just a bunch of bachelors,” Dum Dum laughs.

“It’s hard to meet people in this business.” It’s Bucky’s voice, the first time he’s spoken during the interview. “But one of these days, one of us will get lucky.”

“Maybe we’ll find our soulmates on tour,” Jacques chimes in.

Steve pulls out the earbuds, quiet for a long moment as he works through how he wants to phrase this.

Natasha is patient, continuing to flip through the magazine pages while he gets himself together.

“It’s in their contracts — right? Being single?”

“Yes,” she replies succinctly. 

“Why?”

She folds the magazine, her finger marking her page as she studies Steve. “The short answer? Sex appeal.”

“What’s the long answer?”

“The Howling Commandos is a boy band, plain and simple. Their primary demographic is women ages 16 to 26. The illusion of the band being emotionally and romantically available is alluring. It sells records.”

“And everyone is just…okay with that?”

“They signed the contracts.” Natasha lifts then lowers one shoulder. “It’s not an uncommon clause for actors and musicians.”

A crease appears between Steve’s eyebrows as he frowns at the floor.

“Oh, stop that,” Nat muses. He looks at her again. “At this point in his career, Bucky has to appear to the world as a single man.”

“Is there a clause in there that he has to be straight, too?” The words hold more bite than he intended.

Natasha pauses, and they look at each other. “Yes.”

“That’s insane!” He pushes off the table, needing to stand, adrenaline coursing through him like it would before a fight. “You’re asking him to lie about who he is. Do you know how many kids _still_ die because they love the wrong person?”

“Don’t lecture me,” she replies sharply. “Everything in that contract was combed over for weeks. Bucky knew what he was signing.”

Steve runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Why would he agree to that? Why wouldn’t he ask for it to be changed?”

“We never talked about it.”

“He could be a role model, people would listen to him.”

Natasha shakes her head. “I’m the wrong person to be talking to about this.”

“But you know him, you know everything—”

The door swings open, interrupting him mid-rant. “Pardon me,” the man says in a thick accent, holding out his hand. “Dr. Abraham Erskine. You are Steven Rogers?”

Natasha packs up her bag, standing. “I’ll see you outside,” is all she says, before disappearing out of the room.

Steve is off kilter, but he shakes the doctor’s hand. “Hello — yes, that’s me.”

Dr. Erskine gestures for Steve to take a seat, and he does, still buzzing. Regret at how he treated Natasha starts to trickle in.

The doctor opens a thin chart, pushing his circular glasses up on his nose. “I requested your medical records before the appointment, but it appears you were last seen by a doctor…five years ago, at a free clinic. Is that correct?”

Steve feels a little guilt. “Yes.”

“Here it lists asthma, anemia, sinusitis, chronic colds, high blood pressure, heart palpitations, among a few other things. That’s quite a list, Mr. Rogers.”

“I was a sickly kid.”

“Are you still sickly?” he looks at him over his glasses.

“Yes sir,” he says weakly.

“Let’s see what we can do for you.” He puts his stethoscope in his ears, and gets on with the exam.

 

* * *

 

In his hands Steve holds five prescription slips, stopping beside Natasha at the front of the building. “I’m sorry for how I acted,” he says quietly.

Natasha just nods. “I understand your frustration. Do we need to stop by the pharmacy?”

“Yes, please.”

“Does the doctor want to see you again?”

Steve scrunches up his nose. “Yeah, but I told him I’ll be in New York soon.”

“It’s okay, we’ll get you back for an appointment.”

“Nat, really—”

“Your health is important,” she says, holding his gaze. “We’ll get you back to see Dr. Erskine, whenever he wants to see you again.”

Something in his chest warms, and he nods.

They swing by a Walgreens, shopping for snacks while the pharmacist fills Steve’s new prescriptions. He tells Natasha about the appointment — about how he’s never had money for doctors, and his inhaler is always expiring because he tries to use it sparingly to make it last longer. He tells her because he thinks she might be the only person who won’t pity him for it.

They buy an obscene amount of candy, chips and cereal for the bus. Natasha puts Steve’s medicine on a company issued credit card without mentioning it, and together they carry their bags out to the chauffeured car. Steve likes to think of himself as a down to earth person, but he wonders how it will feel going back to public transportation when he returns home. The smell, the stifling heat, the stickiness of every surface, gum on your shoe and sweat in your hair. Living rich for a few months won’t ruin him, but he thinks his difficult life is going to feel even more difficult after he’s tasted ease and money.

“You’re supposed to use the inhaler twice a day.” Natasha is reading the back of his prescription package.

“That’s what Dr. Erskine said.” Steve scrunches up his nose.

“You have to do it,” she says seriously, reading his reluctance in that single expression.

“I know, I know.” He sighs, looking out the window as they crawl through midday traffic.

 

* * *

 

When Steve climbs back onto the bus, arms full of groceries, it’s Peggy who meets him halfway. “I’ve been looking for you,” she smiles at him, taking some of the bags to start unloading them into the kitchenette.

He automatically smiles back, “What’s up?”

“Are you still looking for a name? For your nonprofit?”

He blinks. “Oh, I mean. Yeah, we haven’t decided on anything officially. Do you have an idea?”

“Okay,” she grins, all teeth and conviction. “I think you should call it: Shelter and Heal in Education, Love and Determination.”

“Um.” It takes him a second to puzzle his way through that. “That’s…a mouthful,” he says, trying to let her down gently.

She rolls her eyes. Peggy Carter does not need to be let down gently. Ever. “It’s an acronym.”

Steve tries to remember all the pieces to make it spell something coherent.

Peggy pities him, and says, “SHIELD. It spells SHIELD.”

“Oh.” It’s a different sound this time, a thoughtful exhale. “That’s…it’s not bad.”

“Not bad,” she snorts. “Fine, call it the Brooklyn Project. I just wanted to give you my opinion.”

“No no,” he says quickly. “I think…it’s growing on me. I’ll think about it. Thank you Peggy.”

She flashes him another smile. “Anytime. You can thank me at your end of the year gala.”

“What gala?” He blinks.

“All fancy nonprofits have a gala. It’s a rule.”

His lips twitch up at the corners. “No one mentioned that. But I think I can work something out.”

“Good. Save me a dance, Rogers.”

She gives him a friendly kiss on the cheek on her way out of the bus. He smiles to himself, scooping up his sketchbook. He flips to a blank page, blocking out the letters SHIELD. He draws them a few different ways, trying a few different symbols. Concentric circles, a bird. He tips his head, deciding to come back to it later.

He flips to a fresh page, sketching a woman dancing, her dress flying out in bold, dramatic lines as she spins. He grabs a red marker, highlighting the billowing waves of the dress before leaving the paper in Peggy’s bunk. “Until the gala,” he writes under the drawing.

 

* * *

 

The band isn’t back at the bus until the middle of the afternoon. Steve has plodded his way through a dozen pages full of thumbnail sketches, and the rough drawings for San Diego and Santa Barbara. Drawing is so much easier when the vehicle isn’t moving.

Dum Dum is the first to make it to Steve at his workstation, clasping him on the shoulder. “How did the appointment go, Cap?”

“Cap?” he echoes.

“Short for Captain, which is short for Captain America,” Gabe supplies. “It was Monty’s idea.”

Steve snorts. “I thought I had escaped the nicknaming.”

“We let you lull yourself into a false sense of security — then we strike,” Dum Dum says cheerily.

“Why Captain America? Seems a little…grandiose, don’t you think?”

Monty flops onto the couch by Steve, adjusting his beanie. “No way. You’re the leader of the new world. _Drawing_ us into a new age. Get it, get it?” He elbows Steve.

Jacques groans. “No puns.”

Steve catches sight of Bucky at the front of the bus, Natasha having stopped him. Steve’s heart does a little skip in his chest. They’re talking in low tones, and she hands Bucky a manilla envelope.

“Captain America is fine,” he finds himself agreeing. Like he had any choice.

The band cheers, catching Bucky’s attention. He parts from Natasha to join them huddled around Steve’s drawing table. “Hey,” he greets, eyes holding Steve’s.

“Hey Buck,” Steve replies, trying to suppress the heat rising in his cheeks.

‘Buck,’ Gabe mouths to Monty.

Dum Dum wolf whistles, effectively breaking the tension. The group laughs, and Steve joins them, despite his embarrassed flush.

“What did the doctor say?” Bucky asks, and everyone’s attention turns back on Steve.

“I have asthma?” He phrases it like a question. “I mean, we all knew that, right?”

“Did you get medicine?”

“Yeah — a few different kinds. We’ll see. I have to come back and see him in a month.”

“I could drive you,” Bucky offers.

“You’ll still be on tour in a month,” Steve points out, smiling.

“On one of the off days, I’ll take you.”

“I don’t think Nat will go for that,” he chuckles.

“What won’t I go for?” Natasha joins them, opening one of her many boxes of cereal to scoop out a handful.

Dum Dum pipes up, “Bucky wants to play hooky and take Cap to his next doctor’s appointment.”

“Cap,” Natasha repeats with an amused eye roll. “It depends on when the appointment is. I will give a tentative maybe.”

“That means yes,” Bucky grins.

“It means maybe,” Nat corrects.

‘Yes,’ Bucky mouths to Steve.

Steve laughs. “What’s in the envelope?”

Bucky holds it up for all to see, giving it a wave. “Script for the ‘Finding You’ music video.”

The entire band clamors over to make grabs for the envelope, while Steve is left confused.

“What do you mean script?”

“Music videos are set up like a three-minute movie,” Natasha explains. “The video is filming while the band is on tour, so they won’t be a part of the shoot. But they do get to approve the concept.”

“Is it good?” Steve asks her, because the band is too absorbed reading the pages in a dog pile formation on the couch.

Natasha shrugs. “This writer has done a few of their music videos, and they have been pretty successful in the past.”

“But it didn’t…change your life or anything?”

“Very few things change my life. I might not be the best gauge.” She lifts and lowers one shoulder, eating the marshmallow pieces out of her hand.

Steve laughs quietly despite himself.

Bucky manages to escape the pile of bandmates, grinning at Steve. “Want to get a bite to eat?”

“Yeah, I’d love that.” He hadn’t had a proper meal all day, and if left to his own devices he might start eating dry cereal like Natasha.

 

* * *

 

They end up at an In-N-Out, which is apparently a Big Deal on the West Coast.

“Okay, but White Castle,” Steve says as they slide into their respective sides of a booth in the corner, waiting for their order to be called.

“You can’t talk to me about this until you taste In-N-Out,” Bucky says dismissively, although he’s grinning. “Now can you tell me about your appointment, really?” His foot bumps Steve’s calf under the table, but lingers too long to be an accident.

Before Steve can say anything, two teenage girls hovering nearby encroach on their table space. Both are blushing like crazy, and looking at Bucky. Neither appears to notice Steve.

“Um, we’re so sorry to bother you—”

“We just _had_ to come over, I told her we’d never _ever_ have a chance like this again.”

Bucky doesn’t look perturbed by the interruption, smiling up at the girls. “Hey, no worries. It’s not like I was in the middle of chewing or something.”

They both giggle.

Steve doesn’t want to be bothered by it, because this is Bucky’s life. So he takes a breath and says, “Do you want me to take your picture with him?”

The girls look at Steve like they’re seeing him for the first time.

“Oh my God, would you really?” the girl with dark curly hair gushes.

The second girl is already putting on lipgloss while the first shows Steve how to take the picture on her phone. Bucky is charming and effortless, his arms around their shoulders as Steve takes their picture. They thank him profusely before scurrying away, giggling and high with euphoria.

Unfortunately that just opens the floodgate. Suddenly there is no anonymity in their corner booth, the distribution of restaurant-goers tipping in their direction. A man asks if Bucky can sign a napkin for his girlfriend. A couple gets a picture. Their food gets delivered to their table instead of Steve having to go pick up the trays — the worker wants a picture on her cell phone before her boss notices.

Bucky is gracious in talking to people, every so often sending Steve a look and a small smile like he’s checking to make sure he’s okay. It’s claustrophobic, but Steve tries to smile back. He remembers the crowd outside the hotel, but then thinks about their time alone in the hotel room. It’s worth it, he knows it’s worth it.

Steve eats his burger quietly, not really needed as an impromptu photographer. Selfies are a thing.

“Hey guys, I’ve really got to eat this thing before it gets cold,” Bucky says to his assembled crowd, smiling.

It still takes a few minutes for people to disperse, last statements of admiration and gratitude trickling in.

Steve tries to think of a person he would feel so starstruck over, and can’t come up with one. Maybe a baseball player, he decides idly.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, touching Steve’s arm to get his attention. He hadn’t realized that he’d zoned out for a moment, jumping a little.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Good.” 

Bucky frowns slightly. “You’re a really bad liar.”

“Why do people always say that?” he mutters. “It’s just…a lot.”

“I know. It’s not usually like this. LA is different, like a heightened form of reality. You’ve been with us all over and this hasn’t happened.”

“But people still recognize you wherever we go.”

“Sometimes, yeah. It happens. It’s good, it means people know who I am. They know my music.”

“I’m just not used to it,” Steve says diplomatically. “I can get used to it.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, taking a bite of his burger. He steals some of Steve’s ketchup on a fry, chewing thoughtfully. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, Steve. We can do this as slow as you want…whatever way you want.”

“I heard your interview this morning,” Steve blurts.

Bucky grows still, eyes on Steve.

“At the doctor’s office,” he continues, looking down at his half finished meal. “I listened on Nat’s phone while I waited for the doctor. You guys sounded really good.”

“Steve,” he says quietly.

“I just…” He takes a deep breath. “It took me a really long time to be okay with who I am. I didn’t exactly grow up in the most…welcoming of neighborhoods.”

“Steve, I—”

“No, listen,” he interrupts quietly. “I’m not interested in being back in the closet. I don’t…I can’t go backward. It’s still so hard sometimes, but if I let myself be okay with hiding, it’s like admitting defeat.”

“I would never ask you to do that,” Bucky whispers.

Steve swallows hard, and gives a short nod. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the other people in the restaurant, and he clears his throat. “Can we just go somewhere to talk?”

“Of course we can.”

Steve insists that Bucky finishes his burger first, not sure when he last ate. The ride back to the hotel is quiet, Steve absorbed with looking at the city. He spends so much time studying the cityscapes for his drawings, but seeing them in person gives them a living element, an energy he’d been missing.

In the hotel room, Bucky takes a seat on the bed, watching Steve as he paces for a moment.

“What do you want from me?” Steve asks finally.

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“Us. What’s supposed to happen from here?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Steve…this is all really new. We could just…have some fun together, get to know each other. No pressure.”

But Steve feels a lot of pressure collecting on his sternum, and there’s a rock settling in his gut. “And what happens after the fun? If we want…something more than that?”

Bucky looks down, and Steve’s stomach sinks further. Finally Bucky says, “I want to date you. Would that be okay?”

It wasn’t what Steve was expecting, and he blinks several times. “You want to be my boyfriend?”

“I was going to wait to ask you but — yeah, I do.”

Steve chews his lower lip, quiet for a moment. “Relationships are…I’m not very good at this. And I don’t know what the rules are with this — us, you.”

Bucky stands, stopping in front of Steve to put his hands on his arms. “If you want to go forward with this, we’ll talk to Nat. We can be as public or private as you’re comfortable with.”

“Your contract,” he objects.

“Screw my contract.” He smiles faintly. “It will be up soon anyway, and I’m at the height of my career. If they want to keep me, they’ll have to figure it out. And that’s why we have Nat, seriously. If we want to come out, she’ll make it happen.”

Steve is still skeptical — Nat doesn't seem to view contracts as flexibly as Bucky is describing them. “I don’t want you to come out if it’s not what you want. That isn’t fair to you.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I’ve never been ashamed of who I am. Now I just have more of a reason to fight for people to know me.”

Steve studies him for a long moment, his throat thick. “I really, really like you. But I don’t want this to go too fast, and for you to…” His voice trails off, unsaid words hanging heavy in the air between them.

Bucky’s hand moves to Steve’s chin, tipping his head up. He leans in for a soft kiss, and even though the contact is brief, Steve is still breathless. Bucky holds his gaze before saying, “I will fight for you, and I’ll never regret what happens next.”

“What happens next?” Steve whispers.

“Anything you want.”

Steve bites his lower lip, searching Bucky’s face for a long moment before coming to his decision. He steps closer and leans up, pressing a warm kiss to Bucky’s lips. Arms envelope his waist, the distance between their bodies disappearing as they press together from hip to chest. Steve’s fingers thread into Bucky’s hair, the tie holding it back from his face loosening and falling to the floor.

Bucky senses when Steve is getting short of breath and his lips move to Steve’s neck, laying a row of kisses down to his collarbone. Steve’s head tips back, eyes closing for a moment as he is consumed by desire. “I want to do this,” he breathes.

“Do what?” Bucky whispers, and Steve shivers because he can feel the words spoken against his skin.

“I want to have sex with you.”

Bucky pulls his head back and their eyes meet, Steve’s heart pounding as the moment stretches. He’s about to say something to fill the silence, maybe a nervous retraction, when Bucky suddenly lifts him up. Steve lets out a surprised sound as Bucky sets him onto the bed and covers him with his body, pressing him into the mattress.

Their lips press together again, a little deeper, the weight of Bucky on him making Steve’s stomach knot with anticipation. His arms wrap around his shoulders, legs shifting to frame his hips. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and just ends up gripping Bucky’s shirt and focusing on the taste of him.

Just when Steve is about to push him back to breathe, Bucky leans back and pulls off his shirt. Steve’s eyes drop, his cheeks heating as he lets himself actually look this time.

“You good?” Bucky asks, voice low. He’s smiling down at Steve, all tanned skin and mussed hair.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he replies, sounding breathier than he thought he would. Steve licks his lips, chasing the taste of Bucky there. “Can you maybe…” His eyes cast down to Bucky’s arm, wistful.

Bucky smiles. “Of course.” He unfastens the multiple clasps on the leather straps covering his wrist, tossing the bracelets aside. He takes Steve’s hand tenderly in his and unties the knots on his bandana next, Steve’s blush deepening. 

“You really want to do this with me?” Steve whispers, fingers trailing over the dark marks spelling his name on the inside of Bucky’s arm.

“Yeah, I really do.” Bucky leans back in, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s lips. The fingers returning the touch on the inside of Steve’s arm make him jump a little, heat filling him. “Do you?”

“Yes. I’m just…nervous. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, affectionately exacerbated. “Being with you is anything but disappointing.”

“You don’t _know_ that — not yet.”

“No, I definitely do know. But this is a big step,” his fingers trail down Steve’s side, finding the hem of his shirt. “Let’s take it slow, okay?”

Steve is a little dazed, but he finds himself nodding. He lifts his arms up so Bucky can remove his shirt, and then their bare chests are pressing together, skin against skin. His lips part, hand finding Bucky’s hair to pull him back down into another kiss with slow burning intensity.

The heat building is electric inside Steve, making it difficult to stay still. His hips are shifting, and Bucky’s hips drop in return, drawing a sound from either of them. Steve is chasing that feeling when his hips rock again, gasping quietly into Bucky’s lips.

Steve surprises himself by reaching between their bodies to start unfastening Bucky’s pants, struggling with the button but finally managing to get it undone and pushing them down on his hips. Bucky pulls back to completely remove his pants, having to pause to get rid of his shoes, kicking them aside. In only his boxers Bucky’s interest is obvious, and Steve is sure he’s blushing all the way down his chest.

Bucky sits back, taking Steve’s left foot and unlacing his shoe, then his right. Steve is a little flustered by the whole thing, eyes following his every move. Only when his feet are bare does Bucky turn his attention to Steve’s pants, getting them unfastened with a lot less fumbling than Steve. He lifts his hips so Bucky can pull his jeans down and off, tossing them into the growing pile of clothes.

When Bucky lays back down between his legs there is only the thin layers of their underwear separating them, and Steve’s hand grips his back. Bucky’s body is warm and heavy in the most wonderful way, making the rest of the world feel very far away. He shivers when Bucky’s fingers slide along the hem of his briefs, his breathing getting a little deeper.

“Still good?” Bucky whispers.

Steve nods immediately, pulling him back in for a firm kiss as Bucky pulls his underwear down, doing the same to his own a moment later, never once breaking the kiss.

And then they’re both completely naked. Steve is naked, in bed, with James Buchanan Barnes. Not just his soulmate, but the talented, gorgeous, kind singer from Brooklyn who happens to be one of the most popular musicians of their generation. To say Steve is overwhelmed would be an understatement. It feels like his entire life was building up to this moment. Happiness doesn’t begin to cover it — for the first time, he is complete.

His breath stutters against Bucky’s lips as their hot flesh presses together, his arms tightening around his shoulders. Bucky’s hand wraps around his cock, making Steve’s back arch. His head tips back in order to catch his breath, eyes pinched closed. His hips roll into the friction, acutely aware that Bucky’s cock is pressed right alongside his. Bucky is sucking against his neck, their hips moving in tandem now.

Steve can’t hold back the low moan, his hips moving a little faster. “Buck…”

“Come on, Steve,” he whispers in return, hips grinding.

The heat and the friction is too much, and Steve’s body tenses right before he comes all over their stomachs. He shivers when he feels Bucky join him, moaning against his skin.

Breathing is difficult for several minutes as they lay there together, until Bucky rolls them onto their sides. He pulls Steve in close, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

Steve just smiles and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Valentine's gift to all the people who have loyally continued to read and enjoy this work after such a long absence! I have been very busy working and applying to law school, but the next few months should calm down and allow me the time to continue this story. (I am instituting, gasp, an update schedule.) I never stopped thinking about this story or planning it -- we'll see this through to the end!
> 
> Thank you for reading and reviewing. =) The random reviews that would trickle in through my hiatus really gave me the strength to continue. You guys are the best!


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